Jerry nodded. His hands gripped the wheel until the knuckles were white. Sweat began to glisten on his forehead.
The headlights picked out a dark spot, that looked like a yawning hole. Jerry stamped on the brake, skidded slightly. But there was only a shallow rut, deformed by shadows. He pressed the accelerator ... and the motor died. Hurriedly, he jabbed the starter button, pumped the gas pedal. Again he pushed it, and again, as the lights faded from the drain on the battery.
"What's the matter?" Carver's old voice was thin.
"Flooded, maybe. Better let her sit a minute."
The darkness pressed close around them, shifted and danced. Chill air moved over their faces.
"Mike."
"Yeah."
"Why didn't that animal come after, you, too?"
Carver breathed heavily for a moment. Then he took something from his shirt pocket and held it out. Jerry's fingers moved over it. A crucifix.
"My mother give it to me a long time ago."