Penelope Styles steered her Dodge Neon into the far left lane of the highway then watched the conversion van following behind her mimic the move in the rearview mirror.
“Shit,” she whispered to herself. “Shit, shit, shit.”
She swept several strands of purple hair off her forehead, feeling a cold sweat that had risen from her skin. In the mirror, the van’s headlight blazed like eyes of a jack-o-lantern.
She first noticed the vehicle about a half-hour ago, just after dusk, when she accidentally passed the exit ramp to north Highway 169. She’d been fiddling with her MP3 player, trying to change playlists, and ended up driving an extra six miles west before realizing she’d missed her turnoff.
That’s when she’d spotted the van.
She didn’t know how long it had been in her wake, but it pulled up behind her as she exited the Interstate to turn around, then followed her back east to the ramp she’d overshot earlier. It could’ve been a harmless coincidence—the two of them making the same mistake at the exact same time—but after becoming aware of the van, she’d kept tabs on its location behind her, noticing it would speed up when she did but wouldn’t pass when she slowed. Now she watched the driver copy her lane changes while she weaved through traffic, displaying a new level of boldness that made her neck hairs quiver with unease.
“Prick,” she shouted at the image in the rearview mirror.
She glanced at the Neon’s control panel and cursed again.
The car needed gas.
She preferred to stay on the road, content to let her vehicular stalker remain on her trail all the way to her parents’ cabin in Clearwater Creek—and to her father’s shotgun collection. Unfortunately, her parents’ place was still a good forty minutes away, and the needle of the fuel gage was already tipping precariously near empty. Like it or not, she needed to stop.
Keeping in the left lane, she eased her car alongside a pickup truck towing a horse trailer. It was only a little after ten, but traffic had already thinned out, and she’d made sure to stick close to the few cars still on the road.
The van trailed behind her, less than a car-length away. Up ahead, the next exit ramp flashed into view, its turnoff bordered by signs promoting food, gas, and lodging.
“Okay, asshole,” she said to the image in the mirror, “follow this!”
With the exit ramp almost on top of her, she slammed on the gas and made a hard right, cutting in front of the truck and up the ramp at the last moment. Horns blared from angry motorists behind her, and tires squealed on the pavement.
She looked in the rearview mirror the second she hit the ramp, trying to ignore the ghost of her reflection when she searched the road behind her. She expected to see an empty stretch of blacktop, but she found the van’s driver had anticipated her move and slowed down to avoid the other traffic.
Now he cut onto the exit ramp and raced to catch up.
“Fuck,” she hissed.
She wished she had a cell phone.
She wished she were closer to her final destination.
Sometimes, on hot dates, she wished she had bigger boobs.
The fact is wishes aren’t being granted at the moment, so you need to take care of yourself.
A two-way intersection came into view at the top of the ramp, and Penelope spotted a brightly lit gas station and sporting goods store about one hundred yards to the right. She started to make the turn when the Neon went dead.
The lights cut off. The engine died.
“What the hell?”
She had no more than a second to ponder the problem when the van roared up from behind. Its headlights blazed through the back window, blinding her in the mirror.
She screamed.
The van slammed into the Neon’s rear end, the sounds of exploding glass and crumpling metal overpowering her cry.
She bucked in her seat. The car skidded across the blacktop, pushed by the van, then jolted again when it crashed through a massive billboard advertising camping supplies. In a split second of raw terror, a chasm-like drainage ditch opened up before her, looking like a huge mouth ready to swallow her whole.
Unable to tear her eyes from the approaching pit, she clawed at her door with blind swipes. The handle eluded her. Leafless branches screeched across the car’s paneling like fingernails. The front tires went over the ledge, and the vehicle’s chassis bottomed out with a bang.
She rocked forward, instinctively clutching at whatever she could to stay balanced, and the door release seemed to jump into her hand.
Screaming, she threw herself out of the car.
She rolled clear of the two vehicles, falling flat on her stomach while her Neon plunged into the pit and crashed to the bottom. Its taillights glared up at her from the dark.
Beside her, the van slid to a halt at the rim of the ditch. Its front tires sat inches from following her car into the murk.
Penelope looked up.
The driver looked down.
And what she saw triggered the most basic instinctual reaction of survival.
She ran.
Slashing through the weeds and bushes, she scrambled up the embankment, back onto the road. Behind her, the van’s engine revved with furious power. Its wheels spun in reverse, issuing a banshee wail as they cut into the ground.
The memory of the driver clung to her mind.
Doll’s eyes, an inner voice shrieked. Empty black doll’s eyes!
Penelope sprinted toward the gas station, cutting across the open land that separated it from the roadside. Here, off the highway, away from traffic, the rural farmland surrounding her became an ugly black wasteland in the dark.
She hit the parking lot of the gas station and raced for the entry, glancing over her shoulder before reaching the doors.
Back on the road, the van’s headlights shone on the pavement like a bloodhound’s nose pressed to a game trail.
She whirled around and dashed inside the store.
The Killer growled, clenching the steering wheel.
Judge Anderson’s vehicle had proved more cumbersome than the Killer anticipated, and that error had allowed the girl to escape.
Her strength helped her to survive, aiding her in ways that, like Mallory, she didn’t even realize. Now she ran to the building, where people waited. They couldn’t save her, no one could, but they also couldn’t be left alive to tell what they’d see when the Killer attacked. The hunt had just become a slaughter.
If only the Killer were fully healed; if only there hadn’t been the need to follow this girl so far from Mallory. Time was being wasted.
But it was all necessary.
The Killer needed strength.
And the girl, Penelope, would provide it.
Penelope ran inside the store. “Help me,” she cried.
The building appeared to be the combination of a gas station and a sporting goods retailer. The large main room housed miscellaneous food and travel supplies to the left, various hunting, fishing, and camping equipment to the right, and a three-register checkout island in the center, positioned along the front windows.
She rushed to the service counter. “You have to call the cops! There’s a fucking maniac chasing me!”
A tall American Indian man with the muscled arms of a comic book superhero stood behind the counter. He’d been tallying the purchases of another female customer prior to Penelope’s entrance and now froze in mid-acceptance of a twenty dollar bill. Both he and the woman stared at her with tense expressions, and Penelope tried to imagine what they were seeing: a sweaty girl with dirt-scuffed clothes and purple hair, shouting with each breath.
“Who’s chasing you?” the clerk asked. He handed the customer her change, allowing her to leave.
The woman made a quick exit, and Penelope pointed past her to where the van had pulled to a stop outside the parking lot’s entry. Its headlights went dark.
“That man’s trying to kill me,” she said. “He’s been following me for over an hour, and he just rammed my car off the road.”
Three other people perused the aisles of merchandise: another employee stocking shelves, and two middle-aged men looking at fishing poles. Each regarded her with expressions of uncertain curiosity.
“Damn, are you okay?” the clerk asked. He wore a dark blue, short-sleeve shirt with a red stripe down the left side and the name “Bird” embroidered in white over the right breast pocket.
“I’m fine,” Penelope cried. “Just get the cops here to arrest that asshole!”
Bird picked up a phone from beneath the counter and set it beside the register. He glanced from her to the doors. “Do you know who he is?”
“Not a clue,” Penelope replied. “He’s wearing some kind of mask.”
Bird faced the massive front windows as he dialed. “Well, he’s watching us, whoever he is. Hopefully the sheriff will get here quick enough to catch the guy.”
Penelope thanked him in a confident tone but had to hug herself to keep from shaking. Taking deep breaths, she leaned against the glass countertop and tried to relax. In the display case directly below, her reflection stared back in the polished blades of a dozen enormous hunting knives.
She straightened up.
Bird put the phone to his ear and a concerned look crossed his face. Placing the handset back in its cradle, he faced the cold storage lockers along the back wall of the store and called to the other employee. “Hey, Jason, come watch the register a sec.”
The lanky, red-haired kid trotted over. “What’s up?”
“The phone’s dead,” Bird told him.
Penelope faced him.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a cell phone,” he assured her. “Regular lines have been up and down half a dozen times since Friday night’s thunderstorm.” He briefed Jason on the situation and told the kid to keep watch on the van. “Use the binoculars; see if you can get a license plate number. Oh, and log the counter time on the surveillance cameras,” he added, pointing to a set of security monitors. “The Sheriff will want to look at the tape. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He turned and strode toward the back corner of the store. Penelope glanced from Bird to Jason and back, then hurried after the towering tribesman. She crossed between aisles of camping equipment, following him into a small office. She reached him in time to see the man searching through a gym bag alongside the manager’s desk.
“Thanks again for all your help,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”
He nodded. “Glad to do it.”
She wanted to sit tight, believe everything was going to be okay, but one question still undermined her resolve. “What if he comes after me?” she asked.
Bird eyed her, still hunting for the phone. “Not to worry,” he replied. “We’d see him on those.” He gestured to what looked like several portable TVs immediately to her left.
Stepping farther inside the office, she spotted four monitors similar to the pair out by the registers. Along with the two cameras keeping watch on the interior of the store and the fueling area outside, an additional pair provided wide shots of the property. She spotted the van in the upper right corner of the third screen.
“So what if we do see him coming?” she prodded. “What if he comes into the store?”
The large man smiled. He leaned across the desk and produced a short-barrel revolver from one of the drawers. “One problem. Six solutions.”
She tried to emulate his level of confidence but only managed a strained grin.
He found his cell phone and flipped it open. “I doubt it’ll come to that,” he reassured her, dialing the sheriff’s office. “He hasn’t even gotten out of the—”
He trailed off in mid-sentence, staring at the phone.
“What about the phone lines, though?” she asked, again turning to the security monitors. “What if they’re not down because of the storm? What if he cut them? That would mean he’s already out there?”
Before Bird could answer, the black and white images on the screens dissolved into static. One by one, they all went out.
Penelope spun, mouth open, but stopped short at the look on Bird’s face.
She froze. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Jason is dead,” he whispered, still staring at the cell phone. “That’s what the display on my phone says: Jason is dead.”
The lights went out. Everything went black.
The windowless office became a cocoon of darkness.
“What the hell?” one of the men asked from the main room.
Glass shattered at the front of the store, chased by a piercing scream that choked off abruptly.
“Crap,” another man shouted, his profanity punctuated by the noise of several fishing poles crashing to the floor.
Penelope’s hands swept the wall beside her, searching for the way out. Bird edged past her in the dark and shoved through the door. His massive silhouette charged toward the counter, and she raced to catch up to him.
Battery-powered flood lamps mounted in the back corners of the room provided some relief from the darkness, but their orange light also helped to enhance the shadows between the aisles and those gathered in the checkout area.
“Hey, what’s going on?” one of the men in the fishing section demanded. “What the hell was that noise? I’m blind as a bat’s ass over here.”
The two men had been separated from the rest of the store behind tall racks of fishing poles and nets. Now, in the blackout, she couldn’t see them at all.
Penelope hurried onward. She caught up to Bird, finding him backed against a pyramid of stacked windshield washer bottles directly across from the registers.
“We shouldn’t go out the front,” she started to say, but fell silent when she saw his eyes had gone wide and his mouth had dropped open.
Penelope turned, afraid the man had reacted to someone who’d approached from behind her, but saw no one at the empty checkout island or near—
The display case.
The glass lay shattered across the floor, the metallic framing blasted out of shape.
All the knives were missing.
Then she noticed the blood. It sprinkled out of the darkness like some hellish rain, splattering the floor in the center of the clerks’ work area. Shivering with fear, acting out of instinct rather than on command, Penelope looked up, tracing the liquid path back to its origin. She found Jason’s gutted body stuck to the ceiling, pinned in place with the stolen knives. The corpse remained half-hidden from view by overhead storage racks of cigarettes and lottery tickets, but she saw enough of him to know that his belly had been slit open and emptied.
Penelope opened her mouth to scream but the sound failed to come.
“Would one of you answer us,” a customer shouted.
She faced the voice to see the two men standing in the light at the end of one of the aisles, followed by the silhouette of a third man dressed in a fisherman’s vest, waders, and fatigue hat. He stepped into view behind the two customers, walking out of a display of set-up camping equipment. Lost in shadow, the person’s face hid within an ovoid patch of darkness.
But there was no one else in the store. Which means—
“Look out,” Bird shouted, voicing the words already screaming in Penelope’s mind.
The men stopped, unaware that the figure had just lifted a double-bladed ax from a wall-mounted hanger.
“Run,” Bird hollered at the men. He lunged in front of Penelope and opened fire with the handgun. Dark chunks exploded off the assailant’s upper body, but the wounds didn’t stop him. He raised the ax over his head.
The tool came down on the skull of the closest man—
Thwack!
—spraying gore, driving him to the floor.
The second man threw himself away from the gunfire, ducking behind a display barrel of foil-wrapped Glow Sticks. Bird ejected the spent cartridges and the man scrambled to find better shelter. Trapped between Bird and the ax-wielding maniac, he clambered up the six-foot-high steel shelves dividing his aisle and the next. The sheet metal bent under his weight, spilling an avalanche of merchandise, but didn’t slow his ascent.
He reached the top when the first tent stake hit him.
They came out of nowhere. A dozen of them.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
One after the other they plunged into his back like arrows fired from the shadows. Three more caught him in the head, casting him off the shelves and over the other side.
Bird cursed, thumbing fresh rounds into the revolver.
Penelope stood paralyzed by the sight. The shape at the end of the aisle advance toward her, moving with purpose. Bird grabbed her arm and hauled her after him.
“Come on!” He pulled her through the main doors, into the humid summer night. “My truck’s on the side of the building,” he said, locking the handgun’s cylinder in place. “It’s the blue one. The doors are—”
He fell to his knees with a shout, taking Penelope down with him. Three medium size knives jutted from his hip and side.
“Oh, shit, no,” she shrieked, trying to help him up.
She wrapped her arms around his midsection, struggling to lift his bulk. He gained one leg. Then the other. And five more knives jabbed into his shoulder and back, causing him to howl in pain. He collapsed.
Penelope pulled at his shirt, tears streaming down her face. “Get up.”
She looked to the store. The figure emerged from the doorway.
“Get up, Bird. Get up. He’s coming!”
The man had fallen silent, but his grip tightened on her arm. Pulling himself to a half-kneeling position, he pressed the handgun and truck keys into her hands. “Go. Hurry… Go.”
The words were still fresh from his lips when two more blades sunk into his flesh, entering his neck and the side of his head. His heavy body went slack and slipped out of her grasp.
Penelope staggered backwards, her gaze locked on the dead Indian. Five minutes ago he’d been an average guy doing his job. Now he was gone. She’d only known him by part of his name, but he’d helped her. Hell, he’d saved her life a moment ago. He didn’t deserve it, she thought. None of them deserved it.
Screaming, tears spilling down her face, Penelope pivoted away from Bird’s lifeless body.
She raised the revolver and opened fire on his killer.
Each shot jarred her arms to the bone. The recoil threatened to send the gun flying from her grasp, but she tensed her muscles and forced herself to hold the weapon level. At such close range—less than twenty feet away—the bullets pierced the killer’s body and punched into the walls of the building behind him.
Then, in a horrifying moment of heightened perception, she saw several sparks leap off a metallic cage of propane tanks near—
The building exploded.