One thing she did know was that she couldn’t endure the burning pain much longer.
Grimacing, she put the car in drive. It rumbled over snow, the steering wheel wobbling in her sweaty, now two-handed grasp. Once they were moving, Lauren’s moans abruptly stopped. Ash considered that a good sign.
Keeping to the shoulder, she rolled past the motionless trooper. With the fog obscuring him, she couldn’t tell what was wrong. If her ribs weren’t killing her, she would’ve dragged him to the guardrail, away from traffic.
Speaking of traffic, where the hell was it? Nobody had driven her way in some time. That bothered her. The fog had only appeared minutes ago, too soon to scare off every driver from 81-North. She supposed the blizzard itself had dissuaded drivers from the highway. That, or perhaps everyone had to attend family dinners.
Family.
In all the chaos and excitement, she’d forgotten about Dad being taken hostage. If Werner was heading north, he might be close.
She had to stop him.
She headed south in a northbound lane, her high beams and four-ways on. If an oncoming eighteen-wheeler approached, the driver would see her. Hopefully. If not, maybe it’d strike her head-on and quiet her screaming ribs.
Soon, she reassured herself. Soon the blaze inside my chest will fade. The outside stench, too. I’ll breathe easy, sit up straight, and find Dad. Soon.
Further down the highway, headlights glowed. Two yellow eyes within the fog.
Fuck. Her first instinct was to switch lanes, but with numb arms and slick palms, she opted to stay put. She peeled her left hand off the wheel and beeped the horn. The action caused her to flinch like she’d touched a hot stove. She chewed her lower lip and pressed again, harder this time, so the horn blared a clear warning.
The other driver didn’t react.
She slammed the horn again.
Still nothing.
The oncoming headlights grew brighter.
She stomped the brake. The Subaru skidded. She tapped the brake, pumping till the car slowed. This was one sick game of chicken. The driver should’ve reacted. Should’ve switched lanes. Why hadn’t he?
Then she realized the car wasn’t oncoming. It was stopped. Stuck against the guardrail.
She exhaled.
As she approached, she kept her distance. Driving past, she expected an angry honk but got nothing.
Another few hundred feet out, more headlights glowed. Two cars this time. Both had slammed the guardrail. Despite the fog, it was odd to encounter three consecutive accidents. After all, this was Pennsylvania, not Pensacola. People here were no strangers to slick winter roads.
Her ribs shed heat as she reached a straightaway. She lifted her chin and peered down the highway. More headlights glowed pale in the distance. Something was off. They were all aimed in different directions.
Another accident—a major one. Ash saw what must’ve been a dozen cars scattered between the highway shoulders. Lights flickered and alarms honked, some in sync, like instruments in an orchestra. But she didn’t see a single cop car or ambulance. Even though it was a holiday, surely emergency crews were on call. What was taking them so long? And what about the people inside these wrecks—why hadn’t anybody climbed out?
Braking, she grabbed her phone from the floor. Dialed 911.
The phone didn’t connect. All she heard was watery static. Perplexed, she checked the screen. A service unavailable message flashed.
She pocketed her phone and continued toward the line of wrecks.
Straight ahead, a vehicle was flipped on its side. Her high beams gleamed off the white roof. As she moved closer, the shape of the vehicle became clear. A van.
But not just any van. Her van.
Then it dawned on her. Cheeto must’ve driven north to help her father. Even though Cheeto was disgusted with her, he’d motored up the highway to help. And on bad tires, no less. She couldn’t believe it. She hoped he was okay. He had to be okay. If he was hurt, suffering so much as a scrape, she’d never forgive herself.
She pulled over to the shoulder and got out. The moment her feet hit the ground, her ribcage crackled with heat. She toughed out the burn and sprinted toward the van. Snow pecked her cheeks. Wind pierced her like a thousand arrowheads. The road underfoot was slippery, but she kept running until she reached the front of the van.
“Cheeto!”
The engine was still running. Half-melted snow covered the now-vertical windshield. She couldn’t see inside. Couldn’t see him. She needed him to be okay. No serious damage, nothing permanent. Even if he had to spend tomorrow in the hospital instead of onstage, she’d take it. She needed him safe and smiling.
Since the van lay on its passenger side, there were only two accessible entry points: the driver side door, which was now above her head, and the rear doors. Ash rushed around back and used her spare key to unlock them. The moment she lifted the handle, the door snapped open, dumping out an avalanche of guitars amps, gear cases, and demo CDs. Everything crashed at her feet while a horrible stench emerged—the same one from back at the zone’s edge. Why did that smell keep following her? It made no sense.
“Cheeto!” Her voice echoed through the van. “Can you hear me?”
Fallen instrument cases and storage racks blocked her path to the front. She had no time to remove them one by one, nor the patience. Instead, she grabbed an amp and set it outside as a footstool. She boosted herself up onto the driver side exterior and crawled across snow-covered steel toward the front window. Worst-case scenarios played through her mind. Had he bashed his head, busted an ankle, or—nightmare of ironic nightmares—damaged his vocal chords?
“Please,” she whispered. “Be okay.”
Inch-thick snow blanketed the driver window. With her sleeve she wiped the glass until she could see inside. Cheeto hung from his seatbelt sideways, his hairy head suspended facedown toward the passenger side.
“Cheets!” She slapped the window, trying to wake him.
No response.
She yanked the door handle. It popped, but the heavy door refused to lift more than an inch. After straining her shoulders, she reached down and brushed off more snow. Once clean, the door wasn’t so heavy. With a single focused heave, she flung the door open.
Then wished she hadn’t.
66
No. It can’t be.
The body that hung from the driver’s seat couldn’t be Cheeto.
Not with a face like that. As she turned his head toward her, she couldn’t believe what she saw. A hideous gash sliced his forehead. Blood soaked his falling orange hair and dripped onto the passenger window in a series of sickening plops. Milky scars covered his eyes, and his nose was bent like an ugly purple fishhook. But worst of all was his chin. It hung bloated and disfigured, with gore lumping beneath a swollen hole along his jaw.
The sight, coupled with the potent stench, made her want to vomit.
“No… Cheeto, no…”
The longer she looked, the more she doubted her sanity. She couldn’t reconcile what she saw with the facts. Even though the van had flipped on its side, damage to the interior was minimal—little more than a crunched ceiling and a cracked windshield. She didn’t see anything that could’ve slashed his forehead or caused such gruesome damage to his chin. At worst, he should’ve suffered some bruises, nothing more.