Glass screamed, and the sound didn't stop.
Blood hit what was left of the windshield hard enough to leave streaks that looked black in the broken headlight. A rib bounced off the hood. Something heavier—a half-torn leg, still in jeans—landed on the roof and slid off into the dark.
And still, the truck didn't slow down.
Zubair had both hands tight on the wheel, shoulders locked, his eyes trained forward.
Only one headlight still worked, the left one, throwing a crooked cone of white into the rain of red. The rest of the glass was gone and the cold air cut through the cab, sharp enough to sting.
Lachlan wiped his sleeve across his face and kept his tone light. "Guess we found the storm season."
A hand slapped the door.
Another hit the side mirror and took it off clean.
The noise was constant—wet, solid, ugly.
