A few minutes later, we were back on the road with a full tank.
The country thickened up with brush, then trees, and soon the mountains resolved from the darkness. Leaning between Alex and Patrick, I marveled at the green peaks, granite showing through like old castles or giant’s teeth. The pass had never looked so beautiful before.
Soon we’d be in Stark Peak, where Patrick would be safe. We’d find police stations and scientific experts and put matters where they belonged—back in the hands of grown-ups.
We barreled toward the mountains, our headlights boring through the darkness, when all of a sudden a jumbled rise of green and brown appeared where none should be.
Patrick stomped on the brakes. The seat-belt strap cut into my lap, and my arms braced against the headrests for the collision. As the locked tires screeched, trying to halt the two-and-a-half-ton Silverado, I caught streaked glimpses of the view ahead. A pile of fallen trees barricaded the road haphazardly, rising twenty or thirty feet. One of the biggest trees had smashed across the rear of an old-fashioned station wagon. A Host tilted through the shattered windshield, his face raised so our headlights shone right through his sightless eyes.
We were going to smash right into him.
The Silverado skidded, skidded, and finally stopped, the grille almost kissing the hood of the station wagon.
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.
My eyes moved past the body to the tattered headrest and passenger seat. What had it been like for him hiding here, mere feet from a Host bent on destroying him? A Host who was also his dad?
“I’ll get you out of there,” Patrick said.
He nodded at Alex, who jogged back to the truck behind us. As I watched her go, a blocky form glinted in the darkness a good ways from the side of the road. A commuter bus lay on its side, half sunk in the marshy reeds. Decaled on the back, the giant logo from the Lawrenceville Cannery. Lawrenceville was little more than a cluster of lean-to houses around the factory perched on the highest shoulder of Ponderosa Pass, so they bused in most of their work staff from the valley. The windows were tinted. There was no telling who was inside.