Jesus. They were burning furiously, might explode in his hands at any
second, but he seemed to have no concern for his own safety, a savage
and almost gleeful look on his face, as if he was born for this, nothing
but this. He skidded to a stop and cocked his right arm like a
quarterback ready to pass the ball to his receiver.
“Go!” Paige shouted.
Marty was already going, and he didn’t need encouragement to go faster.
Instead of turning to look through the back window, he used the rearview
mirror to be sure he stayed on the driveway and didn’t angle off into
any trees or ditches or jutting rocks, so he was aware of the first
bottle arcing through the snow and shattering against the BMW’s front
bumper. Most of the contents splashed harmlessly onto the driveway,
where a patch of snow seemed to burst into flames.
The second bottle slammed into the hood, six inches from the windshield,
directly in front of Paige. It shattered, the contents exploded,
burning fluid washed the glass, and for a moment the only forward view
they had was of seething fire.
In the back, seatbelts engaged, staying down, holding tightly to each
other, the girls shrieked in terror.
Marty couldn’t do anything to reassure them except to keep backing up,
as fast as he dared, hoping the fire on the hood would burn out and the
heat wouldn’t cause the windshield to implode.
Halfway to the county road. Two-thirds. Accelerating. A hundred yards
to go.
The blaze on the windshield was extinguished almost at once, as the thin
film of gasoline on the glass was consumed, but flames continued to leap
off the hood and off the fender on the passenger side. The paint had
ignited.
Through fire and billowing black smoke, Marty saw The Other running
toward them again, not as fast as the car but not a whole lot slower,
either.
Paige fished two shotgun shells out of a pocket of her ski jacket and
stuffed them into the magazine tube, replacing the rounds she had
expended.
Sixty yards to the county road.
Fifty.
Forty.
Because of intervening trees and vegetation, Marty could not see
downhill, and he was afraid he’d reverse into the path of an oncoming
vehicle. Yet he didn’t dare slow down.
The roar of the BMW prevented him from hearing the shot. A bullet hole
appeared, with a sharp snap, in the windshield below the rearview
mirror, between him and Paige. An instant later a second round drilled
the windshield, three inches to the right of the first, so close to
Paige it was a miracle she wasn’t hit. With the second violation, a
chain-reaction of millions of tiny cracks webbed across the tempered
glass, rendering it milky-opaque.
The transition between the end of the dirt lane and the pavement wasn’t
smooth. They slammed backward onto the county road hard enough to make
them bounce in their seats, and the crazed safety glass collapsed inward
in gummy chunks.
Marty pulled the wheel to the right, reversing uphill, and braked to a
full stop when they were facing straight down the road. He could feel
the heat of the flames that were eating the paint off the hood, but they
didn’t lick into the car.
A bullet ricocheted off metal.
He shifted out of reverse.
Through his side window, he could see The Other standing spread-legged
fifteen yards from the end of the driveway, gun in both hands.
As Marty tramped on the accelerator, another round thudded into his
door, below the window, but didn’t penetrate to the interior of the car.
The Other broke into a run again as the BMW shot downhill and away from
him.
Although the wind carried most of the smoke off to the right, there was
suddenly a lot more of it, blacker than ever, and enough churned into
the car to make them miserable. Paige started coughing, the girls were
wheezing in the back seat, and Marty couldn’t clearly see the road
ahead.
“Tire’s burning!” Paige shouted above the howling wind.
Two hundred yards farther downhill, the burning tire blew, and the BMW
spun out of control on the snow-skinned blacktop. Marty turned the