The bullet clanged off the RV’s metal. It sang in the dark. Mason waited for the cry of an injured man, but it never came. Instead, the killer retreated behind the door as he pulled it shut. Mason and Bill stood frozen, waiting patiently for a sign of surrender.
The RV rocked. There was a metallic scraping sound from inside. Mason pictured a door sliding back to grant access to the front seat. The engine grumbled to life, spitting out smog into the already dark night. Curious, his heart racing, he stepped carefully around the side of the vehicle, gun gripped and ready for a second, life-ending shot.
A blast came from the front seat. A flash of light came and went. The passenger-side door opened, and a body slumped out. Horror gripped Mason as Bill ran to the body and rolled it over. The mortified, pain-stricken face of the victim stared up at the starless sky. Blood oozed from her skull and ran into the mud.
“Son of a—”
“Shoot the tires!” Mason barked.
Bill snatched his gun from the mud. They both took aim, but the RV wheels spun as it crawled out of the muck. Mason let off a round in a hurry, but it bounced off the wheel arch and vanished from sight. Stones and mud made a sucking sound as it pulled away, slowly at first, then picking up speed.
Mason spotted it immediately. There was a ladder on the back, just as there had been back in the day. He didn’t think—didn’t pause to consider the risk or the fragility of his aging body. He simply started to run, and his legs did the rest. Only the RV was faster, speeding up and up until the ladder, so close to Mason’s outstretched hand, finally lunged away from him. The RV sped, swerved, then disappeared around the corner.
“Goddamn it!” Mason yelled. He wasn’t sure what got to him the most—that another innocent had been murdered, that Marvin Wendell had somehow magically risen from his grave, or that he had taken off into the night with another victim.
Whatever it was, it filled him with more rage than he could handle.