I sat up straighter. “Who?”
“Bellend on the other side. Weaving all over the shop— Damn. I see Willow— Nash! Over there!”
“They see her,” I told Locke.
He relayed the information to Willow. “Pullover. Nash is coming, okay. He’ll get to you— What the fuck was that?”
Horns blared over the road noise.
Cam’s panicked shout.
The crunch of metal and concrete.
Willow’s echoing scream.
25
NASH
I’m dead.
No, I wasn’t. Just quiet and wet, like the world around me. I was distantly aware of the raging storm, but I heard nothing but the slow thud of my pulse in my ears. The drip of the rain, quiet against the echo of a violent bang.
Acrack.
Maybe.
I wasn’t sure.
Diesel. Was I in the garage? Had I finally tripped over River’s feral piles of junk and bashed my fucking brains out?
That theory didn’t work with the rain. Or the eery stillness in my bones. Or the fact that we only had petrol hogs in the shop right now.
I coughed and the dull pound of my pulse heavied, a dragging weight, disorientation bearing down on me however hard I fought it.
And I didn’t fight that hard.
I was fucking tired.
No.
Instinct kicked me awake, and I fought the fog descending on me, gathering my bearings.
Helmet.
It was still on my head.
My hog.
No fucking clue.
Willow.
Shit. I flexed my fingers. Shifted my arms. “Willow?”
In my head, my voice was deafening. In reality, it was hoarse enough to hurt my fucking throat, terror creeping over me as I pictured the last thing I remembered. Picturedherin her tiny car, a sitting duck in the driving rain as an out-of-control HGV veered across the central reservation.
“Willow!” Louder this time, but no one heard me. Maybe they were all dead.