Germ

Stephen jerked his door handle up. Julia grabbed his arm. Blood was smeared on her upper lip, leaking out her nose. She was peering over the front seat, through the windshield.

He looked. There was nothing out there but a disappearing red-dirt road, rust-colored puddles, millions of little stalagmites of water pinging upward, wavering sheets of heavy, dark rain . . .

And a man.

Walking toward them in the center of the street. Just a silhouette. Rising and falling with each step. Gone now, lost among the cascading beads. There! Closer! Broad shoulders. Tall. Wearing a . . . cape? No, a long coat, an oilskin slicker. It took a few seconds to realize the figure had stopped moving; the rain maintained the illusion of movement. Then it slacked.

"The Warrior," Stephen said. The wound in his side seemed to throb, as though confirming the killer's presence. He became aware of the dome light, making their faces visible to the man outside. Atropos waited at the far edge of the headlights, appearing blurry and grainy, a 1970s eight-millimeter version of himself.

"He knows where Allen is," Stephen said.

"We're not ready," she said. "He'll kill us. We need to do this differently."

"Like how?"

"We need to be the ones surprising him, not the other way around."

"Too late."

"Why's he just standing there?"

"He's grinning," Stephen said. He felt his muscles tighten with anger.

Atropos swung his arm up. A red light glimmered, then his hand appeared to explode in white light. Windshield glass shattered over them. Then again. Stephen turned to cover Julia, but she was already falling out of her open door. He shouldered open his own door and tumbled out into the mud. He rolled to the rear and fell into Julia, crouched at the bumper. The back window ruptured; glass pellets washed over them.

He looked at her hard. "You run," he said. "I'll distract him." He started to rise. She lunged at him, encircling his neck with her arm. Her face, mud peeling off it with each strike of raindrop, was all he could see.

"You're not doing that!" she said. "You didn't come this far to die in the mud. I can't save Allen alone. I need you."

"You need me right now," he said. "Let me get you out of here."

"Not like this. We both go or neither of us does."

He saw in her eyes she was serious.

She uncoiled her arm and took his hands. She moved them to the bumper. "Hold on," she said. Then she rolled away, back around the side of the station wagon.

"Wait—!"

He peered through the windowless back. Through cantaloupe-sized holes in the windshield, he watched Atropos approach, slowly, with confidence. He saw Julia's hand come up by the steering wheel and grab the shifter. She yanked it down. The engine gunned, and the station wagon fishtailed and shot forward.

The tires slung mud into Stephen's face, blinding him. He pinched his eyes closed, held his breath, and tightened his grip on the bumper. The road played out under him, jostling him over ruts and potholes. A hundred tiny fists beat his chest, stomach, legs. Their speed seemed tremendous, and the ride went on and on. The hidden edge of the bumper cut into his fingers. Mud pushed under his grip, slick as soap. He turned his hands to stone, but he couldn't hold on much longer.

The wagon crashed into something. His body lifted and his head cracked against the tailgate. He released the bumper. His face dropped into a puddle. He used it to splash the mud out of his eyes, his nose, his mouth. He rolled onto his back, raised his head, and looked. They had traveled only about three blocks.

How could that be?

Atropos was back there, not as far away as Stephen would have thought . . . or wished. Red mud coated the killer's right side, as though he had hit the road to avoid the station wagon. The rain was washing him clean again, as it was Stephen.

Julia appeared at his side, a fresh gash in her forehead.

"I'm all right," she said before he could ask. "Come on."

She tugged on him, and they both rose. They passed the station wagon, which had struck a large wooden cart. Crates of oranges had tumbled onto the hood and road.

At the first street, they turned right. Stephen looked back, slipped in the mud, and fell hard. Julia pulled him up. Stephen wiped his eyes and peered around.

They were on a street mixed with storefronts and small houses that appeared to be cobbled together from old signs and corrugated metal. The rain and false dusk cut visibility to roughly two blocks; any direction could lead to a dead end or to the relative safety of a crowded indoor market—there was no way of knowing.

"This way," she said, heading up the street.