Then wham. Yet another image. A flicker of black shapes against blinding white. It came with a sharp slice of pain up the back of her head. Then it was gone. Trees in her headlights bent suddenly in the wind, the gust tearing debris free that hurtled across the road and smacked into her windshield. She jumped, pulse racing, past slamming into present—a dark, wet, black horror trying to rise out of the abyss of her mind and crawl into her consciousness. With it came a raw instinct to flee. South. On the back of it rode a compulsion to stand ground, fight it. Make it show itself—this horror.
