No Breanna. That can’t be good. But I don’t see anyone else either. So I step out onto the road. I’ve made it halfway across when I jerk to a sudden stop. Someone has moved out of the shadows on the other side of the highway, and it’s definitely not Breanna. It’s a man. Maybe in his thirties. With long, greasy hair and dirt smudged on his face and both arms. A ridiculously large rifle propped against his shoulder. He’s grinning, and I know that look. Fucking hell, I know that look.
FUUUUCK THIS IS EERIE
