Quicksilver

by Dean Koontz

I hurried to the Toyota, opened the trunk, discarded the gun, opened my suitcase, and retrieved the small pair of scissors from my shaving kit. When I returned to the woman, her head hung low, chin on her chest, as over and over she muttered, “Gotta get, gotta go, gotta be there,” as if she was late for the same appointment as the White Rabbit. I cut one zip tie, and her left arm dropped into her lap. As I cut the second tie, her head snapped up, and her eyes opened wide. She seized my face with her right hand, digging her fingernails into my left cheek. “What’ve you done? What’ve you done with him?” With her hand clamped tightly over my chin and mouth, I wasn’t able to answer her with more than a muffled “Done with whom?” Even I couldn’t understand what I said. Her eyes shone in the shadows as she demanded more fiercely, “Tell me what you’ve done with him, you freakin’ Nazi zombie!”