Cynthia Cooke - Running with Wolves

“What is he, a track star?” she cried as Jason sprang into action, running at the man, bracing his hands on the hood of the truck and swinging both legs around and planting them square in the man’s middle.

The man buckled over with a loud whoosh.

“Get in the truck,” Jason yelled.

Shay ran past him and jerked on the door. It was locked.

“Dammit!” She fumbled in her jacket for the keys. Found them and pulled them out. She quickly hit the unlock button and pulled open the door then tried to climb up into the cab, but Buddy was moving back and forth across the front seats, barking ferociously.

“Move over, Buddy!” She pushed him back then slammed the door shut as he tried to plow across her lap. The other three men, seeing what was happening, were running toward them.

“Hurry Jason!”

Jason punched his assailant once more, sending the man soaring, then turned, rushing toward her, but before he could reach the driver’s door, another man, a giant red-haired beast, grabbed him by the arm, swung him around and punched him straight in the face.

Jason hit the ground. Hard. The giant turned toward her, his hard green eyes narrowing as he spotted her in the truck. Quickly, she hit the lock button, locking all the doors.

He pulled on the handle anyway, jerking it up and down.

Another man appeared at the passenger’s door, rattling it as he, too, tried to get in. Buddy was going nuts, barking and jumping at the window. And then the third and fourth men appeared.

She was surrounded.

“Jason!” she screamed, but she couldn’t see him. Where was he?

Buddy sprayed spittle all over the driver’s-side window, and jumping against it so hard, she was certain he was going to break the glass. What was she going to do? She couldn’t just sit there. Surely Marge would see what was happening and call the police?

Wouldn’t she?

“Jason!” Shay had to get out of there. She stood in her seat, trying to see beyond the front of the hood, but the men were surrounding the truck now, pushing against the doors and windows, rocking the vehicle back and forth. They were going to tip her over!

Shay blared on the horn, hoping someone would come running. Would help. “Jason!” she screamed again. Then she remembered the keys. She still had them. She pushed Buddy out of the way, stuck the keys in the ignition and turned them. The truck roared to life. She popped it into Reverse, quickly glanced behind her and then pushed down on the accelerator. The truck flew backward, tires squealing, smoke rising.

And still the men kept coming.

She saw Jason lying on the ground, his head torqued at an odd angle across the cement parking spot, blood dripping down his face. “Please let him be okay,” she whispered. He had to be okay. Marge and a few truckers ran out the front of the diner. They would help him. They had to.

The men ran after her. Pushing her foot against the gas pedal, she floored it, pulling out of the motel parking lot and careening back onto the highway. She looked behind her to see if the men would follow her or if they’d turn back to Jason.

And if they did? Would the others help him? Could they? Before she could give it much thought, she saw them running toward their vehicles. They weren’t after Jason; they were after her.

She drove down the highway faster than she ever had before then quickly pulled off at the next exit and skirted behind a gas station facing the highway where she waited for the two trucks to pass her. She didn’t have to wait long. Within minutes the two trucks sped by, barreling down the highway.

Immediately, she gunned it, turning around and driving back to the diner, hoping the men wouldn’t figure out what she’d done for at least another ten minutes. By then, she would have Jason and they would be gone.

If he was okay.

She pulled back into the parking lot, tires squealing, the truck pitching dangerously. But she didn’t care. Quickly, she scanned the parking lot, but she didn’t see Jason anywhere. Panic crawled up her throat.

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