Karen Winters's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The heat cut out. Karen heard the change before she felt it. The fan slowed, coughed, and stopped. The dash lights held for another second, then dropped to the faint green of the clock. The engine had been idling for hours. The tank was empty. She sat up in the back seat. Her breath already showed. The windows were furred with ice on the inside. Outside, the shape moved past the rear bumper again, slow, patient. The creature had not left. It had only waited. Karen pressed her hands between her knees. Her fingers were stiff. She was wearing a thin sweater and her good boots. No coat. The wine box sat on the floor like a joke. She thought, plainly, I am going to die in this car. Then she thought of Devon. Not the shape of him, the sound. Her stepson at the kitchen table last month, tightening the strap on a traction mat and saying, You put it under the drive wheels, Karen. Rear ones. Not the front. He had said it twice because she wasn't listening the first time. He had packed the mat in the trunk himself. She had already tried the mat. It hadn't worked because she'd put it under the wrong tires. Karen looked at the door. The creature was at the front of the car now. She could see its antlers past the hood, tipped down, sniffing at the grille. If she opened the rear door on the far side, it would be a straight ten steps to the trunk. She would freeze if she stayed. She would die faster if it caught her. Both were true. She eased the far door open. Cold hit her face like water. She slid out on her knees into the snow and pushed the door shut with her hip. The creature's head snapped up on the other side of the car. She heard it, didn't see it. She crawled. The trunk release was inside. She had the key fob in her fist. She pressed it. The trunk clicked open an inch. She pulled the mat free. Rubber, ridged, stiff with cold. She dragged it around to the rear driver's side wheel. Her hands would not close all the way. She jammed the mat under the tire and packed snow against it with her palm. Claws ticked on metal. Close. Karen threw herself into the driver's seat and turned the key. The starter caught on fumes. She put it in drive and fed the gas gentle, the way Devon had said. The rear tire bit the mat. The sedan lurched forward six inches. Then a foot. Then it rolled. She did not stop. She did not look in the mirror. The car crawled up the rut and onto flatter track, coasting on almost nothing, and behind her the antlered shape stood in the road and did not follow. The fuel light blinked. The cabin was still two miles up.