His beating rapidly, Isleen’s catching only every third beat.
The whisper of their mingled breaths made a song—a rhythm only Xander was able to hear. He couldn’t feel or see anything, but he wasn’t freaked. It felt like they were in an odd sort of suspension, where only peace and grass-smoking hippies could thrive. A thought floated across his mind.
We should be dead. But we aren’t. Our hearts are beating. We’re breathing.
The rest of Xander’s senses came back online in a rush of color and texture and sensation. He lifted his head, realizing he had buried his face against the span of skin where Isleen’s neck sloped into her shoulder—an oddly intimate place for his nose and mouth. He found himself kneeling, knees on the grass, with Isleen crushed to him, her chest mashed against his. The way he held her was no sweet romantic gesture; it was determination to keep her with him. Keep her safe.
Overgrown weeds grew unimpeded toward the sky, and giant dandelions pocked the yard with their pretty color. On three sides of him, all Xander could see were cornfields.
Waves of malicious intent lapped at his back. He didn’t need to twist around to know the trailer and his truck were behind him.
How had they gotten here? His memory provided no answers. One moment the trailer had exploded around them, the next they had been suspended in the weird place where only sound existed, and somehow here they were.
Flawless, fresh sunshine warmed his skin. God, just to be out of the darkness and despair of the trailer was a miracle. But now the extent of Isleen’s misery was spotlighted. Every bone protruded against her translucent skin. Her eyelids were lavender; her lips nearly the same color. Wounds covered her entire body—some almost healed, some beginning to heal, and some heartbreakingly fresh. A meager stream of blood oozed from the gash in her side.
Underneath all the suffering, Xander saw something he recognized, something familiar, something he couldn’t place and would have to ponder in order to understand.
The truck’s ignition wheezed, chugged, and then caught. The roar of it rammed tension up his spine. He turned in time to see the vehicle bounce and jolt, trying to break free from the room it had plowed into. A small pile of debris was the only thing standing between them and a head-on collision.
No way had the grandmother survived. His thoughts shifted into hyperdrive, searching for options to keep him and Isleen alive. He wasn’t the type to turn pussy and run. He was the type who enjoyed a good ass stomping. Didn’t matter if he was the victor or the loser—either way was more satisfying than walking away with a limp dick. His hope sputtered and stalled. There were no options. But there was nothing to do. No way to fight. Here, in this situation, when he had to think about more than himself, the only fucking choice was to run.
With Isleen still pinned to his chest, he sprinted toward the cover of the cornfield. Maybe he could lose the bitch in the hundreds of acres.
The stalks weren’t even as tall as he was and yet they stood as a formidable guard, blocking his entry into the field. He fought through the first row of corn, through another, and another—bashing, smashing, using his body and Isleen’s to penetrate the field. The coarse leaves sliced at his face, his neck, his arms, leaving stinging cuts in their wake. He couldn’t tolerate the thought of what they must be doing to Isleen’s naked skin.
He glanced through the leaves, back to the yard. The truck broke free from the trailer and shot directly for where they had entered the field. Of course, it came right for them; he’d carved a nice path to their location.
He hunched over and changed direction, turning left to follow the row instead of going against it. The space wasn’t wide enough for him, and certainly not for both of them. He ran in an awkward sidestepping motion.
The truck hit the corn in the spot they’d vacated less than ten seconds ago. For one fist-pumping moment, it sounded like the bitch was going to drive around in the middle of the field searching for them, but then the banging of stalks against the truck grille turned in their direction and got closer and closer as if she knew exactly where they were.
Xander bashed back through the sentry rows into the yard and sprinted toward the trailer. If he could just get to the structure and hide inside, maybe the bitch would think they were still in the field. The angry growl of the engine was suddenly, inexplicably, obscenely close. The truck jumped out of the field no more than fifty feet behind him.
They weren’t going to make it.