Wesley Stotter knew a back way to the forest. The sandy road became impassable after a little rain but with any luck he’d be out of there by the time those thunderheads arrived.
The grass was almost taller than the Stottermobile. Even the grass growing in the middle of the tire tracks scraped the bottom of his car. The sand sent him sashaying if he went too fast. Yet he pressed down the accelerator. No way could he climb it on foot. Once upon a time he wouldn’t have hesitated. He didn’t mind growing older until he realized one more physical limitation.
Grasses gave way to trees. Back here were oaks instead of ponderosa pine. The leaves had started changing, some had already fallen. The road wound in such tight turns it was impossible to see what was around the next corner. Branches hung low enough to scratch the car’s roof rack. The trees had been planted in straight rows years ago but brush filled in the rows and in the moonlight shadows seemed to spread and devour any openings.
Just a little ways more and he would get to the clearing. A couple more bends to climb around. Then it would be a short hike down to where he believed the radio dispatcher had sent emergency personnel.
He goosed the accelerator a little more, fishtailing in the sand before turning up the next curve. Stotter thought he saw movement to his right between the trees. He slowed and craned his neck to get a better look out the passenger window.
Someone was running. Someone or something.
The front of its face bulged, the back looked hunched. The head swiveled and it looked at Stotter with glowing red eyes.
Then it was gone before Stotter had a chance to decide whether he had really seen anything at all.
He sped up, winding around the trees when a flash of light blinded him.
Stotter slammed on the brakes and held his arms up in front of his face to protect his eyes. The light swept back and forth over the hood. The engine coughed and died. The headlights went dark. He kept one arm up while he fumbled for the keys. Found them and twisted. No response.
The light flashed off. Then came back, piercing him.
A burning sensation raced through his body. His stomach, his lungs, his heart felt like they were on fire. The pain was unbearable, a flame sweeping through his veins. He thought his chest would explode.
And then it stopped.
It took him a minute to unclench his body, to breathe, to open his eyes. That’s when he realized the light was gone, too. Only darkness surrounded the Roadmaster. Darkness and silence.
He tried to look out the windows but his vision had blurred. The light had blinded his eyes. He wouldn’t be able to see a man—or an alien—if he was standing in front of him at the hood of the car.
Stotter grabbed for the key in the ignition and turned it again.
Nothing.
Usually there was enough battery juice left for the dome light. Whatever that beam of light was, it had knocked out the entire electrical system of his vehicle.
He crawled frantically around, locking all the doors. He climbed over the backseat to retrieve his duffel bag, yanked it open, and started pulling out item after item until he found it.
He wrapped shaking arthritic fingers around the handle of a Colt .45.