As the car roars down the forest road, I can still smell the campfire clinging to Brad’s coat.
He wrapped it around me when I headed for our tent to sleep, but now, even inside his coat, I’m shivering like crazy.
Brad moves one hand from the steering wheel to my knee, giving me a worried glance.
“Sara? You okay?”
No, I am *not* okay. He woke me up to a horror movie, and he’s asking if I’m okay? After what just happened to our friends?
I want to scream.
I want to jump from the car.
I want to shove Brad’s hand away and yell, “What the hell were those things?
They kept… changing! One of them looked like Gil, but I saw Gil’s body in the fire! And Angie’s head on a tent pole! Were we just playthings to them?
Did I actually see Nathan getting crushed by his own sleeping bag? How could a *tree* rip Jules apart? A tree!”
I want to scream all that. Like I screamed when those things laughed and began chasing us. And again when Brad took forever starting the car. “Like a goddamned horror movie,” I want to scream.
But I don’t.
“Just… keep your eyes on the road,” I tell him.
I hate the tremor in my voice, but I’m flooded with adrenaline and fear, shaking all over.
Everywhere except my hand.
I’m concentrating very, very hard on keeping my hand perfectly still, because if my fingers jangle the car keys I’ve found in his coat pocket,
“Brad” might suspect his current plaything knows something.
But oh god, do I want to scream.