"I'll be home in twenty. I'm about a minute from the cross. I can't wait to see you."

Phillip Jackson, long-haul trucker and family man, closed his cell phone. His call went straight to voice mail—just like he'd hoped. She was sleeping, and so were Billy and Katie and Reggie The Wonder Dog. He could surprise them. Swooping in in the night and hugging each and every member of his family as if he'd never hugged them before was almost enough to make up for the constant weeks of travel. Almost.

He saw it. The cross—standing in the distance, shrouded in fog, a familiar beacon in an ocean of interstate. That rugged, wooden crucifix had seemingly stood since time immemorial, right across the bridge into town. He saw it every time he came home and every time he left. That bridge was the only way in or out of Prospect, Indiana. He had come to associate it as much with the Good Lord as he did with his family. Every crucifix, every church—every sacred symbol reminded him of home. He couldn't wait to see them.

Phillip veered his truck onto the bridge. It was an old, wooden thing, not unlike the cross at its conclusion some seven hundred feet away. His rig took the bridge to capacity—but it didn't matter. Old faithful never faltered. As his wheels collided with the bridge, making that familiar cobbling sound—another he associated with home—he grabbed his CB. It was time to radio in.

"Hey! John Boy! You there?"

"Woah now! Way to follow the protocol 'ere, Philly."

"Give me a break, man. 4,500 miles. At least 50 stops. It's 3AM. I just wanna see Kathryn."

"Woah woah woah woah—I'm just bustin' yer balls 'ere, buddy! Chillax. Whatchaneed?"

"I'm just looking to pull the truck in and go home. Quickly, if you're not busy? I miss my family."

"Yeah. Sure thing, buddy. Sure thing. I feel ya. Where ya at?"

He focused. The fog was heavy. The cross was still a few hundred feet away.

"I'm at the cross. I'll be there in—wait a minute, Johnny. There's someone in the road. At least… I think it's someone. Is that a… ?"

The figure stood in front of him. Wrapped in fog—someone. Or something? Phillip's eyes, still straining, could make out only the faintest indications of the thing as it stood—stoic, almost lifeless—on the side of the road. The silhouette looked vaguely human, but the features... ?

"What're ya sayin' 'ere, Philly? A man? Little late for ped traffic, idn't it?"

"It's—I mean, he's… just standing there. I think it may be a hitcher?"

Both creature and cross stood alarmingly still as the truck etched ever closer to them. Phillip's eyes were locked hard onto the man—the… thing?—as he approached.

"A hitcher? Screw 'im, Philly. That's what I used to say. Back before the arthritis took away—"

Phillip zoned out. Johnny's arthritis stories were the furthest thing from his mind. He saw it—in all of its horrible splendor. The thing—the damned thing—was certainly no man. It was taller, animal-like. It looked like something from a monster movie. Whatever it was, it was still—standing in the distance, looking at him. Through him. Its eyes were an otherworldly red. Its teeth were gnarled and poised—ready to pounce. It arched its body and roared malevolently.

"Philly, my man? You 'ere? You didn't stop for 'at sunuvabitch, did ya?"

"I… John… call the police… it's… OH MY GOD—"

He screamed. It was coming right for him with an inhuman grace and speed. It was practically on all fours. Working solely on instinct, Phillip floored the gas. The beast held strong, looking ready to destroy the metal monstrosity in front of it. It was on the bridge now—maybe thirty feet away. Twenty feet. Ten feet. Five feet. They were on course for collision.

Phillip swerved. He couldn't do it.

The truck hit the side of the bridge with an unrelenting slam. It began to buckle. Phillip Jackson, long-haul trucker and family man, was propelled through his windshield. His body soared through the air as the bridge began to crumble. He landed, as if by design, on the old wooden crucifix with a sickening thud. If the impact didn't kill him, the impalement did. The creature rounded on him. It looked hungry.

The citizens of Prospect, Indiana woke up with the half-eaten remains of a man impaled on a cross in the church courtyard. The bridge in front of the grisly scene had completely collapsed. The truck plunged into the river with it. The beast responsible was nowhere to be found.

"He's dead! Gone! That's it."

"Oh come off it! You can't just bottle it up like this, Kate, and you know that."

"I can do whatever I please, thanks."

She went for the door. He yelled after her.

"Well… alright, but… you can talk to me! You know that."

She stopped. Deathly still. She turned to face him, staring daggers.

"I can… talk to you? Talk? Alright, Kurt—let's talk. That'll help! Clearly. I woke up three days ago to discover that my father was impaled on a gigantic cross. Y'know, after his truck collapsed the bridge—the only way in or out of this awful fucking town, for the record—and his body flew thirty feet after being hurled through the windshield of aforementioned truck for no logical reason? Oh, and did I mention that wild dogs spent the night chewing on him? What about how all anyone around here seems to care about is how they're getting to work tomorrow? That's what I've got going on right now, Kurt! How are you doing?"

Katie Jackson paused. She had gone too far. He was, after all, only trying to help. It's all he'd ever done, since that day when they were five—the day they met. She was playing in the park when a stray dog attacked her. Out of nowhere, this kid—Kurt, this total stranger—ran up with a stick and fought it off. She walked away with a few scratches and a new best friend. The cuts were gone in a few days; Kurt was still there twelve years later.

She smiled. The thought of that story always made her smile. He looked at her, puzzled.

"Well, that's random. At least you're smiling. 'Bout done making me feel like Hitler?"

"… yeah. I'm… yeah, y'know. Sorry, I guess. It's just…"

"Hard. I know."

He didn't know, she thought. But he meant well.

"Let's just get ready. The service starts in two hours."

The funeral parlor was a dismal, dreary brown. Rain and wind pattered against the roof of the place, providing a depressing soundtrack for a depressing occasion. Katie sat amongst the mourners of her father, a sense of hopelessness welling up in her chest. It had been an awful day. Her mother sat to the left of her, sobbing quietly into a handkerchief. She had a history of wearing her heart on her sleeve. Her brother, Billy, was seated next to her mom. Billy, normally a frenetic, five-year-old ball of energy, was surprisingly somber. The death of his dad had, she thought, ripped his youth away from him far earlier than he deserved to have lost it. Sitting on the other side of her—loyal as ever—was Kurt. Why was he here, she wondered? He didn't have to be. She looked at him. He smiled cautiously.

It was time for the eulogy. A broad-shouldered bald man with a leathery face and a thick mustache, clad in a suit and tie that looked painfully unnatural on him, approached the stage. Johnny.

"I know, I know," he said. "You're all a-wonderin', 'What's he doin' up 'ere instead 'a Kathy?' Right? My name is John Sinclair and Phillip Jackson was an old buddy 'a mine. I met Philly—I called him Philly, he called me Johnny—must'a been, oh, Iunno, 'bout twenty years ago now when he was just a-startin' as a driver down at 'at truckin' company in the back 'a town. Now, mind you, I never imagined I'd be puttin' 'at old dog to rest just two short decades later. I'm here today, ladies 'n gents, to give tribute to a man whose family—why, his family's sa' darn tore up with grief 'at none of 'em can do it."

Johnny paused. He looked directly at Phillip's casket. It was closed.

"You hear 'at, buddy? They love ya. We all love ya."

Katie wasn't sure why, but that was it. She had been sad—she had been sadder than ever before, in fact—but she had yet to shed a tear over her father's passing. Until now. Something about that sentence—that admission of affection from Johnny Sinclair, of all people—set her off. Her eyes began to water. As if on instinct, she reached for support from the first hand she could get to. It was Kurt's. He looked at her, and they locked their hands together for the first time. It was… warm. Comfy. Some small part of her had always wondered what that would feel like—but not like this. Not here. As the tears began to roll down her cheeks, she jumped up. The chair creaked loudly, as chairs tend to do at the most inopportune of moments. Time stopped around her as everyone—her mother, Aunt Trudy, Johnny Sinclair, and, yes, Kurt—turned to see what the commotion was about.

"Sorry," She tried to say. Her voice had left completely. Unable to handle all the eyes locked onto her, she lost it. Katie ran from the room, stepping over anything and everything to get out of there as fast as humanly possible.

"Um, I'm… sorry, everyone. Really." Johnny said. He bolted after her.

Katie fled to the first empty room she could find. She slammed her fist against the wall in frustration and then kicked a nearby folding chair, sending it flying haphazardly across the floor. Her father's death, and all that that entailed, had finally set in. He was gone. Forever. And nobody was even sure why. She pounded the wall again. And again. And again. Her knuckles were bleeding. She'd never punched anything before. It suddenly felt so liberating.

"Hey… Kate... look, are you—"

It was Kurt. Before he could finish his sentence, she'd cornered him. They locked eyes. She pushed him against the wall and began to kiss him—aggressively. She ran her hands through his hair—another first for the day—and then pushed her body against his. She'd wanted this for so long. Why was she only just realizing? He kissed back, running his hands down her curves, and then… suddenly, he resisted.

"I… you… we… you don't know what you're doing, okay?"

He pushed her off. His face was red, flustered. He was right. She wasn't thinking.

"Kurt, I'm—"

"Hey! Quit! It's totally fine. Stop apologizing for everything."

He stepped forward. He didn't kiss her. Instead, he embraced her. Unsure of what to make of everything that had just happened, she accepted. For a few brief moments, she wept into the loving arms of the boy who had saved her far too many times before. It felt right.

The door opened.

"Woah woah woah woah. 'ere you two are! I been lookin' e'rywhere for you'ns."

It was Johnny. His voice was unmistakable.

"Everything's fine." Kurt replied. "She's just… "

"Upset. I know, buddy. I know. Say, boy—uh, Kurt, ain't it?—would ya mind, uh, getting' outta 'ere for a bit? I been a-meanin' ta' talk ta' Kate about somethin' 'ere. "

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Absolutely. Sure." He turned back to Katie. "I'll be right outside."

Kurt made for the door. As he did, Johnny pulled him aside.

"Boy! Now ain't the time and it damn sure ain't the place. Hands ta' yerself—ya hear me?"

"I wasn't—yeah… okay. Hands to myself. Got it."

He walked out, looking guilty. It was her fault.

"Johnny!" Katie chimed in, her voice returning. "It wasn't like that, okay? He was just—"

"I know, I know. Calm down. How're ya holdin' up, kiddo?"

"As good as can be expected, I guess?"

"Yeah. Stupid question, I know. I'm a damn fool sometimes. Sorry 'bout 'at. Listen, I… uh… I know you been a-worryin' 'bout e'rything and I… well… I—honestly, I gotta give ya something. The police, they… they ain't got no clue what to make a' it and to be honest and I ain't sure what to make a' it myself. They sayin' maybe it's a damn dog that caused all this, right?"

"Yeah. They've got some tape, but… they won't let us hear it? I asked. Like, more than once."

"Oh. You know 'bout 'at, then? Well, I got it too. It was Philly—yer daddy—on 'at company radio tellin' me to open the garage fer 'im. It ain't no damn dog 'at caused all 'is. It weren't no damn dog eatin' on him, either. You'll see what I mean. I reckon I's the last person he ever talked ta'. And, uh, I made a copy of 'at tape... before I parted with it. I just wanted you'ns ta' have it, y'know? Yer mommy's too grief-strick ta' lay somethin' like 'is on and, well, I know yer a tough girl. Here."

Johnny patted himself down, looking for something in his pockets. It was clear that he really wasn't accustomed to suits. Finally, he found what he was searching for—a cassette tape. Unlabeled. He tossed it to her, but she fumbled—she'd never been a good catch. She picked it up, smiling.

"Oh. Wow. So this is it?"

He nodded.

"It's 2011. Where the hell am I gonna find a cassette player?"

"Wal-Mart?" Kurt replied.

"Bridge is out."

"Oh. Yeah. Damn."

"Gee. Thanks."

Kurt frowned and took a sudden interest in his shoes.

"You know I didn't mean it like that." He paused before looking up. "Hey! What about that thrift store on the other side of town? "

"Thrift store? What thrift store?"

"Come on. I'll take you. We'll be back in fifteen—no one'll notice. "

Katie had reconvened with Kurt in the parking lot. As they walked to Kurt's car, she couldn't help but wonder. Why was he doing this? It's a stupid cassette tape. It means nothing to him. He shouldn't be this helpful. Why was he being so great?

She bumped into him on accident. She was daydreaming. She needed to focus.

"Hey! Watch it, will ya?" He said, smiling.

"Oh. I'm so sorry. I mean, really. I'll write you a formal apology in the morning."

"Well. That's a start, I guess."

They both laughed. It was the first time she could remember laughing—really laughing—since the day it happened. It was nice. The laughter continued as they got into Kurt's car—a beaten up old mess that he'd scrimped and saved every dollar he could get his hands on to purchase. It had been knocking at death's door for a while now. As it pulled out of the funeral parlor's parking lot—as only it could, with its signature crackling muffler—an awkward quiet set in. A few minutes passed with no one speaking.

Finally, she broke the silence.

"Hey… Kurt… I'm sorry. About earlier. Back there. I don't know what came over me."

"Don't be. Hey, hit the radio, okay? Silence kills me."

He didn't want to talk about it. Fair enough.

"Yeah. Sure. Which button?"

"The big black dial. Right next to the tape—"

"The tape player! There's a tape player. Ugh, you idiot, I could kiss you!"

She blushed. That was possibly the stupidest thing she could've said.

"What can I say? Sometimes it pays to own a 1989 Ford Taurus."

The muffler crackled again, as if on cue. Kurt pulled over so they could concentrate.

She jammed the tape in. The soundtrack of her father's death unfolded before them. The idle chit-chat, the repeated insistence from her dad that he missed his family. The mysterious road-side stranger, her father's screams, the visceral sound of metal colliding with metal. And, of course, the howling. The hellish roar of whatever her father was so frightened of throughout the last moments of his life.

She was furious.

"Kate… I'm sorry. They probably wanted to keep this from you for a reason."

"Shut up. Don't be. Listen. I need you to do something for me. Okay? No questions asked?"

"Yeah. Of course. Anything."

"Take me home. I've gotta get ready. And then, tonight—2:30 tonight. Pick me up at my house. The car's loud—park it a street over and meet me out back. No one can know, okay? I know it's a lot to ask, okay, but… please? I need this?"

"Yeah. Alright. But—and I have a bad feeling about this, but—what exactly are we doing?"

"We're gonna find it. That thing that did this. We're gonna find it—and we're gonna get even."

The autumn air was cold. Katie stood on her doorstep, clutching a loaded-down backpack in one hand and a flashlight in the other. As she waited for Kurt, uncertainty flooded her mind. What was there to gain from this? It probably was just some dog or something. The cops said the bites were canine, after all. If that tape meant nothing to the police, why should it mean anything to her? It was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just an accident. Accidents happen. Right?

And then, she heard it. In the distance—very faintly—she heard it. That visceral, otherworldly howling. It was no dog. But what was it? She had to find out. She had to stop it. It was taunting her.

"Hey!"

She jumped. It was just Kurt. Nothing to worry about.

"Wow. You showed up. Amazing. I… thought you'd think I was crazy."

"Since when were the two mutually exclusive? I can show up and think you're crazy, Kate."

She smiled. He was so good at making her laugh. He grabbed her bag and slung it across his shoulder. That was a first. They trekked towards his car a street over. She led the way with her flashlight.

"So what's in here, anyways?" Kurt asked, gesturing towards the bag on his back. It was stuffed.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Really now? Try me."

"Uh… let's see. Some more lights. Some batteries. Bandages. Um—some knives and one of my dad's guns. Binoculars. The most tightly-rolled sleeping bag on the planet. Just stuff."

"Woah. Dial it back a bit, Kate. Some whats and one of your dad's whats, now?"

"Look. I know it sounds crazy, but… whatever this is, it's not normal. It wasn't some pedestrian and it definitely wasn't a stupid dog. I know my dad—um, well, I knew my dad. And you do—did—too. He was the most straight-laced person in the history of history. If it looked anything like a dog, he would've said so. He didn't! He called it a "thing". An "it". That's so not him. I don't know what the hell we're walking into, Kurt, but whatever it is, we have to stop it before anyone else gets hurt."

"Alright. Alright. You're right. I'm down, I guess."

"You guess?" She asked, looking puzzled.

"No. I'm down. For real. Whatever it is—dog, Bigfoot, Lon Chaney Jr.—we'll get rid of it. Like I said: you're right. That tape was weird and something's wrong here. And we'll fix it. I promise."

Kurt threw her backpack, with some effort, into the back seat of his car. They got in. Katie played the tape again as they began to drive towards the bridge where all of this started.

"You know," She said. "I… heard something. When I was waiting for you. This. The howl. Right there! The one on the tape. It was just like that. I wasn't sure at first, but hearing it back now—yeah—it's the exact same sound. What is that? It's like it's… toying with us."

"Well. Let's find out."

The trip was short. It's a small town. They got out. Katie unzipped her backpack.

"Take this."

She tossed Kurt a flashlight and one of her father's hunting knives, before slinging the binoculars around her neck, clipping a knife onto her waist, and—with a nervous frown—tucking the gun into the back of her jeans. It felt weird, but it was what everyone did in movies.

They got to work. She had no idea what they were looking for, but look they did. The cross was their first destination. This was the first time she had seen it since before everything happened. Much of it had been dyed red, undoubtedly from being covered in the viscera of her father. It was covered in caution tape. She tried not to focus on it. The sight of the fallen bridge was equally unsettling. The gap separating Prospect from the rest of the world gave her a horrible feeling of entrapment. It was like being marooned on a deserted planet. She couldn't leave. No one could.

The search itself was proving fruitless. It was becoming painfully obvious that it was only serving to depress her. This was a ridiculous idea. Why was she here? And why did she drag him along?

A scream echoed in the distance. It was close, but out of eyeshot. Another sinister roar—the second one tonight—succeeded it. Whatever this thing was, it was on the prowl. As if on instinct, she retrieved the gun tucked away in her jeans and pointed it in the direction the sound had emanated from.

"Kate! Come on! Get in the car!"

That… was different. Kurt had never sounded that way before. Strong. Protective. Powerful. She listened, without thinking. She let him take over. They got in the car and zoomed off into the night.

"We can't just run!" She pleaded, regaining her senses.

"Who's running?" He responded, driving right towards the source of the sound. "I told you we would make this right. Let's make it right."

He floored the gas pedal.

It wasn't long before the source of their screaming—and the source of its cause—came into full view. A little girl, maybe ten, lay in the middle of the street. She had been almost completely eviscerated. Her killer stood over her. The thing—in clear view, it was definitely a thing—was at least seven feet tall. Its body was covered in patchy, silver fur stained with blood and dirt. It was certainly more animal than man. It stood on two legs that were not unlike those of a goat—their joints unnatural, malevolent. Its body was lean and powerful, with high, angular shoulders and strong arms that ended in clawed, five-fingered hands. It had the head of a wolf with the horns of a ram. Its cat-like eyes glowed fiery red. Its teeth were exposed, yellowed with age and red from blood. It was feeding on the gore.

The car skidded to a stop with mere yards separating the two of them from whatever it was. Katie couldn't take her eyes off of it, but she could feel the gun—that cold, unfamiliar metal—in her hands. She craned out the window, firing into the night. She was an awful shot. The bullet went wide. The creature roared again, entrails dripping from its mouth. It took a run and go, leaping onto the hood of the car. It looked right at them. They were separated only by the windshield of Kurt's Taurus.

She fired again. Dead ahead.

The bullet penetrated the windshield, nailing the beast in its ribs. It winced in agony, but never faltered. She buried a second shot into its side. More pain, but this served only to make it angry. The creature bellowed another earth-shaking roar and slammed the windshield with one of its clawed fists. It shattered instantly, pelting them both with glass and covering them in lacerations. Through the pain, she fired again—instinctively—burying another shot into its rib cage. Blood went everywhere. She must've hit something vital this time. It was hurt. It arched its back, ready to deliver a killing blow.

Kurt stomped the gas. The velocity of his sudden take off hurled the beast from the car completely.

"Old faithful!" He yelled, as what was left of the car sped away from the creature. "You okay?"

Somehow, she laughed. There was something about what he'd just said that was so perfect. Her dad called his truck that, she thought. What very well may have been a demon from the depths of hell was attacking them and he was calling his car "old faithful" and checking on her. He'd saved the day—again.

"Yeah. I'm fine. And you know what else?"

She grabbed his face, pulling it towards her with the car in mid-motion.

"What?" He replied, somehow managing to look into her eyes and drive at the same time.

"I fucking love you. That's what."

They kissed. It was brief—given the circumstances—but it was magic. It was beautiful.

"Now," She continued. "Pull the car over. It's gaining on us. We've got business to settle."

He did just that. Kurt hit the brakes, spinning the car around. It would've been like something from an action movie—if he hadn't slammed the tail end into a tree in the process. The sound of the collision was deafening, but the damage—at least to them—was minimal. The car was done for, though. And so was the tree. A number of its lower hanging branches now littered the ground.

She jumped out, gun in hand; he followed, knife at the ready. The beast locked eyes with them. It charged. It was running on all fours, horns out. It was going to gore them. She fired the gun, but the shot missed completely. It was just too fast—and it was getting closer. Kurt looked on, helpless. Katie took another shot—and another miss—as it neared them. Thirty feet away.

It was coming right for her.

She tried to shoot. The gun clicked. Six shots. It was out of bullets.

"Hey. You know that thing you just said about loving me?" Kurt asked. Twenty feet.

"Yeah." She answered, eyes still locked on the beast. Ten feet.

"I love you too—"

Kurt jumped in front of her. Its horns tore into his chest with a disturbing crunch. His blood spilled freely as it lifted his body into the air, shaking his carcass around to finalize the kill. It snapped its head toward the ground violently, sending his body spiraling down onto the pavement. It bounced as it fell.

Kurt was dead. He had saved her. Again. And she couldn't return the favor.

She looked up. The love of her life was dead at the hands of the creature that killed her father. Her gun was empty. There was a knife—a knife so small that it was practically useless—clipped to her waist. She looked down. At her feet, she saw it. A massive tree branch—undoubtedly from the wreckage. She thought of Kurt—the five-year-old Kurt, who had saved her from a dog at the park all those years ago with nothing but a tree limb—and she opted to mount her defense with the branch. It was thick. Solid. Powerful. He had given her a weapon. Even in death he was saving her.

The beast stood there. It was taunting her. It had been since the beginning. Raged burned in her chest.

"I—AM SICK—OF YOU." She said, walking towards the beast with an unnatural certainty. Her heart was pounding; her breath was short. She wasn't afraid. Only furious. "THIS—ENDS—TONIGHT."

It just bellowed. Another howl, like laughter. She was becoming accustomed to them. Sick of them.

"Whatever."

She swung the branch, channeling strength she'd never known herself to have possessed. The beast, perhaps over-confident, allowed it to happen. And happen it did. The shot connected—right with its ribs. Right where she'd landed the gun shots. Right where she wanted it to. The blow hurt. It obviously hurt. The beast writhed in pain, unable to retort. She didn't care. She swung again. And again. And again. Shot after shot, she connected, taking the thing—whatever it was—down to its knees. With every shot, it winced liked a wounded dog. Blood poured freely from its chest.

"Never. Again." She said, raising the bloodied branch as high as she could. It was time to end this.

The hesitation—the single second's pause as she readied her final blow—was too much. The beast was weak, but it was also opportunistic. It leapt onto her, pinning her to the ground with relative ease. It was strong. Her weapon fell. The beast began to tear into her. She could feel it ripping the life away from her body. Even wounded, it was just too powerful. It was tearing her to shreds. She was dying.

Suddenly, a gun shot rang out. It was louder than the others had been. Where did it come from? Nevertheless, it hit the creature. Hard. The impact forced it off of her entirely. It staggered backwards, and then—finally—fell. It took a moment to stir, and then began to clamor—weakly—to its feet. It wasn't dead, but neither was she. Just as the beast had done, she seized her opening, pulling herself to her feet through immense pain. Her body was riddled with cuts, bites, and bruises, but none of that mattered anymore. This was it. The knife was still clipped to her belt. She pulled it out, leaping animalistically onto the creature. Her first stab took its left eye—the second took its right. This ended here. She drove the blade into it continuously, piercing its nose, its mouth, its neck—and then, finally, its heart. She didn't stop until it stopped moving—until the awful roars subsided.

She stood up. It was dead. And so was Kurt. She ran to him—as best as she could, given her condition—and fell to her knees beside him. His body was a mess but his face was in-tact. She looked at him, crying, as images of what could've been flashed through her mind. It was over. Everything.

Someone cleared their throat from behind her. She turned around—slowly, uncertainly.

It was Johnny. He had a shotgun in his hands and a sullen expression on his face.

"Heard gunshots. Knew it'd be you'ns. I'm… sorry, kiddo." His breath was heavy. He was scared.

She couldn't speak. There was nothing left to say. The adrenaline had worn off and the events of the evening were catching up to her. She was about to black out. Johnny dropped his gun and ran over, pulling her back onto her feet before she could collapse. He started walking, gingerly pulling her along.

"Come on. Truck's right up 'ere. I'll getcha some help. Cops' is on they way 'ere to deal with 'is mess."

She turned her head, stealing one last glance at what was left of Kurt's body. She had loved him for twelve years and she was only just beginning to really realize that. Johnny let her linger—only for a moment—before pulling her forward again. He helped her into the passenger seat of his truck.

"He's a hero. Both a' you'ns are. Now come on. Let's getcha to a hospital."