The crunch of gravel beneath their boots sounded like dry bones snapping in the dark.
Three figures tore through the dense brush bordering the deserted stretch of backroad, their silhouettes cut sharp against the moonlight. Every breath came as a ragged gasp, metallic and hot in their throats. In each of their right hands, gripped with white-knuckled desperation, was a firearm… glinting dull black in the night air.
Behind them, somewhere far off but not far enough, the faint whine of engines threaded through the trees, a reminder that the night was not yet done with them. Every snapped twig, every rustle in the underbrush, sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through their already-burning muscles.
