“Project car,” he muttered. “Science experiment.” Before he thought too much about it, he turned and opened the driver’s side door. He had to see this thing running. “Stock,” a deep voice called. His head whipped around. The speaker fell to hands and knees. “Stock. Hell me.” No, no: Stop. Help me. The guy was clearly hurt. He wore a black studded leather jacket, black shirt and black jeans. He was pressing one hand to his hairless head and bright blood was streaming freely between his fingers. As Mackey looked on he fell to his side, unconscious. For a second Mackey debated turning around, going back to the house and calling the cops. Or an ambulance. Then responsibility resumed its course and he lurched forward to help. He was about to kneel when he saw the horns. They were about two inches long and projected from high on the forehead. Some kind of costume. Glued to the skin. Or shit, I don’t know, one of those body-altering freakazoids. But he didn’t believe it. There was something about the guy’s bone structure that insisted to Mackey’s gut that this was the way he was made. Then there were the pointed ears. Shocked, he stood back up. His eyes drifted back along the road and into the wood, following the trail of disturbed leaves back the way the man — the driver, he assumed — had come. Slowly he followed it, down the ditch and back up again, just off the road. It wasn’t far before he found it. His first thought was a giant bat, or several giant bats, but really giant. One torn wing must have been twelve, fifteen feet long. Making its total wingspan twenty-five or thirty feet. But there were too many wings, far too many, and they connected to a tentacled octopus-thing the size of a small bear. It was hard to make out what its face had looked like, because its head, such as it was, had been smashed to a gooey purple mess with a tire iron left at the scene. Mackey turned, striding on wooden legs, feeling himself in a nightmare, but nightmare or not he decided he didn’t need anything so much as to get the fuck out of here. When he got to the road the driver, the fucking devil-man, was trying to get to his feet again. He turned his head toward Mackey and looked at the mechanic with eyes orange as torches. “Help me,” he said, enunciating each word clearly, though his accent was thick as tar. “I’m going to get help,” Mackey said. “Stay and die,” said the driver. “They’re coming.” He pointed south along the road and Mackey saw an orange light there, long before the dawn. A fire, most likely. But there was a low noise, as well, like a great flock of cawing birds. The driver came to one knee, then with great effort to both feet. “What’s coming?” Mackey said. “More of those things?” The driver nodded, orange eyes fixed on the Chariot, taking slow and careful steps toward the car. One of his arms looked to be broken and his jacket was shredded at the right waist. “Fuck me,” Mackey said. “But — fuck, man, what are you saying? Where are they coming from? What do they want? I mean, where are you from?” “No time.” The driver’s side door was still open and the devil clutched the frame as he fell heavily into the seat, groaning in pain. “Where are you going?” “World after world,” the devil said, and closed the door. He glared balefully at Mackey and tilted his head toward the passenger seat. “Last chance. Ride or die.” “Fuck!” Mackey said, and got in the car. 13
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