Run on Red

by Noelle W. Ihli

A dark, hulking shape sat angled in the weeds like a black hole in the pale, dry grass. A truck.

When would we hit the tree trunk thick enough to kill us? Impossibly, the car kept sliding—either smashing across or through everything in its path like the tank it was.

I’d been bracing for something bad to happen for as long as I could remember. Ever vigilant, ever anxious, Olivia Heath.

The irony that we might have escaped the psychopaths on the road only to freeze to death in the canyon felt razor sharp. I couldn’t let the story end this way.

“You just have to remember the rule of threes. You can survive three minutes without air. Three hours without shelter. Three days without water. Three weeks without food. First things first, and you’ll survive.”

“They’re gone.” A spark of recognition flared in my mind then died. I’d heard that voice before. Laura nudged me in the side urgently. I got the message—she recognized the voice too.

In a survival situation, everything is inconvenient. Stay focused on your top priority. Resist panic.

I was about to make the last leap onto the shore when Laura screamed again. I froze. This sound was different—a ragged, vulgar sound that sent adrenaline pouring into my veins again.

All I knew was that Laura was still alive—and I was still free. I’d promised I wouldn’t leave her. As long as those facts remained, this was the only choice.

Semper unum. The words clicked, along with their meaning. “Always one.” They were Deltas.

I’d always thought of myself as a true-crime junkie. But it turned out, that was only when it happened to other people.

Men like this said things like that to girls like us, knowing we’d been told our whole lives that if we listened carefully and followed the rules, we’d stay safe.

Why go to all this trouble, if his ultimate goal was to kill us? I understood now it wasn’t his goal. The hunt was.

Narcissists think they’re smarter than everyone else. But that doesn’t mean they are. That’s how they get caught. They make mistakes. They underestimate the intelligence of police. And they underestimate the intelligence of their victims.

The shape came into sudden focus as the fear prickling across my skin turned poker hot. They were human remains. A girl, from her long braids.

What it came down to was this: We were all targets. Even if you made the right choice, followed the right rules, took the right risks, kept your cool, made the right friends, didn’t walk alone home after dark, kept a rape whistle in your pocket, and guarded your drink at bars.