As the hand tightened on my forearm, the burn intensified. It felt like acid eating through my skin. I tried to wrench free. The Hatchling peeled away from the tree, his camouflage changing from cracked brown to shades of olive and black that matched the surrounding forest.
His other claw resolved from the trunk, rising in the air.
A memory flash hit me from moments before—those pointy nails mangling a boy’s body with the efficiency of a blender.
I twisted and swung the Rebel’s helmet with all my might. It cracked against the Hatchling’s head, denting it in.
He reeled back, his grip loosening just barely.
But it was enough.
I dropped my weight to the ground and ripped my arm free. It lit up with the pain of a thousand hornet stings, but this was no time for pain. Already the crater at his temple was filling itself back in.
I ran for the truck.
The Hatchling scrambled after me.
The other Hatchlings were surging up the slope toward us, now only twenty yards away. They crashed through the underbrush, leapt over branches. I heaved myself into the cab across Patrick’s lap, and Alex floored the gas pedal. The Hatchling lunged for me. I pulled my legs inside an instant before a tree trunk took the swinging passenger door clean off.
It smacked brutally into the Hatchling, wiping him from view.
I stared down at myself in disbelief. My legs remained intact. My feet were still attached to my legs.
When I lifted my gaze through the open doorframe, I saw the other Hatchlings hurtling after us. Their camouflage cycled rapidly to keep up with the terrain. Colors flickered across them as if their skin were TV screens.
It looked as though the valley itself had come to life, as though the ground and trees were pursuing us.
I bit my lip and hunched over my scalded arm, waiting for the sting to let up. We rumbled toward the rim, the truck slowing as the terrain steepened. The Hatchlings were gaining on us. Given the camouflage, it was hard to pin them down. They seemed to sprout from the mud and drip from the branches.
I looked away. It was almost too much to stand, thinking about what would happen when they caught up.
Alex’s voice cut through the air. “We’ve got a problem.”
“As in a bigger problem than problems we already have?” I asked.
She pointed at the gas needle.
A quarter tank and dropping rapidly.
Now an eighth.
“The fuel line must’ve busted,” Patrick said.
“How?” Alex asked.
“I don’t think there’s anything behind us that you didn’t run over,” I said.
The truck lumbered upslope toward the rim. I glanced back. The living forest was closing in, bits and pieces surging into clarity. Here a claw. There a gaping mouth.
“Well,” Alex said, “at least it can’t get any worse.”
A low whooshing sound filled the cab, and then flames licked up from beneath the hood.
The truck was on fire.