The desert sun didn’t set; it bled out over the horizon, turning the Texas asphalt into a jagged streak of obsidian. Frank pushed the 440 Magnum until the steering wheel vibrated in his sweaty palms. Beside him, Roger was reloading the shotgun, his hands shaking so hard the shells rattled against the floorboards.
Behind them, the headlights of three nondescript sedans cut through the rising dust like predatory eyes. These weren't highway patrol. These were the men from the clearing—the ones in the robes who had turned a vacation into a blood sacrifice. Race with the Devil YIFY
A heavy thud rocked the rear bumper. One of the sedans had pulled alongside, its grill gritting against their quarter panel. A man leaned out of the passenger window, his face a mask of calm, calculated fury. He wasn’t holding a gun; he was holding a heavy, hooked chain. "Take the shot!" Frank yelled. The desert sun didn’t set; it bled out
The tires screamed as the car skidded sideways, narrowly missing the rusted iron supports. Frank swung the wheel back, the momentum nearly flipping them over. Behind them, the pursuit intensified, the gap between the bumper and the abyss narrowing with every heartbeat. The horizon was gone now, replaced by an absolute, suffocating blackness that seemed to swallow the road ahead. Behind them, the headlights of three nondescript sedans
Frank floored it. The engine roared, a mechanical scream against the oppressive silence of the plains. He remembered the look on the girl’s face before the knife fell, and the way the cultists had looked up, their eyes reflecting the firelight, realizing they had witnesses.
Roger leaned out, the wind whipping his hair into a frenzy. The shotgun blast shattered the sedan’s windshield, but the car didn't veer. It surged forward, slamming into them again, forcing the vehicle toward the crumbling edge of the shoulder. "They aren't stopping, Frank! They don't care if they die!"