Josh leaned his head and shoulders out the window, his sandy hair whipping around his ears. The gun in his hand barked, jerking his hands back. Once, then twice more in rapid succession. A howl of rage and pain sounded from behind them, and the loathsome figure pinwheeled away.

Just in time. Honking the horn desperately, Jeremy ran a red light, avoiding two cars crossing in front of them only by slaloming in a long, terrifying s-curve that nearly resulted in them t-boning a tractor trailer that was pulling out of a warehouse. Muttering curses under his breath Like prayers, Jeremy juked into the oncoming Lane, shoved the accelerator to the floor, and pulled around the huge vehicle just before he could run down a group of day-tripping motorcyclists.

“Any sign of him?" he panted as he took the right-hand turn onto 63rd

Street, a trail of angry shouts and raised middle fingers in their wake.

“Not yet," Josh answered.

“I got him in the hand or wrist, I think.

Broke his grip on the trailer right when he was going to peel off another strip."

"You did," Althea answered with Rachel's voice. "But that didn't incapacitate him. Demon-spawn heal quickly. Beheading is the preferred method of killing them."

“Now you tell me," Josh cracked.

“And me without my favorite choppin' ax." From behind came a snort of laughter, then Rachel leaned forward to kiss him on the neck.

“Before we all get killed, we might as well introduce ourselves," she said.

“Of course," Yasna replied with mock gravity.

“When we die and go to paradise, we should be on first-name terms."

“I'm Rachel Wainwright. That's Jeremy Edwards driving the truck. Beside you is my husband, Joshua Sunderman, and my daughter Sarah is back here with me. In the trailer we have my son Alex and his girlfriend Maria

Ochoa. And of course, Althea Carpenter inside my head."

“Pleased to meet you all." The words sounded hopelessly inane. "Doctor

Yasna Marafi, Chief of Surgeons at the University of Chicago Medical

Center."

“Any idea where he is, Althea?" Jeremy asked. His hands were bone-white where they clenched the wheel as they barreled up 63rd Street. Less than a mile ahead, Yasna could see the overpass and the streaming lights of cars on the expressway.

“Not behind us," came the rich voice from behind them. It sounded slightly uncertain. Doing nearly sixty, the truck blew through a green light at Martin Luther King Drive.

When the attack came, it was so swift and from a direction so unexpected Yasna could do little more than gasp. From their left, in the dim, dank darkness of the Norfolk and Southern train depot, came a flickering shadow. The truck rocked under the assault, and Yasna could see Kincaid's horrible form clinging to the trailer like a massive four-legged tick. Splay-legged, its arms and legs bunched with muscle, it crawled towards them.

“What is it doing?"

“Probably intends to kill Jeremy and wreck the truck and then kill us all at its leisure," Rachel said. "Maybe you shouldn't have shot him,

Josh," she giggled hysterically.

“All you did was make him mad."