Marcus never saw the truck coming.

He was walking down Commerce, an old boulevard going to rubble near the tracks, when the semi careened out of the curve in Habersham and headed straight for him. Marcus shouted a curse and backpedaled, almost falling into a culvert. The semi roared past him and jumped the ditch, sending up clouds of red dust.

Marcus stood up and brushed himself off, anger coming in quick on the heels of his shock. The semi squealed to a stop and the driver opened the door and stepped out, his face impassive as a block of ice. Marcus growled in irritation and shouted vulgarities at the man, venting his frustration, almost relishing the fury. He had a gun in his shoulder holster and the steady weight of it gave him a thrill of power.

The semi driver kept walking towards him, his expression unchanging. Marcus frowned, shut his mouth, and felt for the pistol. His eyebrows lowered and a wary, expectant fear plucked at his nerves.

The man was only twenty feet away now. In the glare of the sunlight, past the swirling riot of the red dust, Marcus saw something flash in the man's left hand. His fear surged to an angry incredulity and he drew the pistol, started shouting again. The man said nothing and as he passed through the dust Marcus noticed with a stab of disbelief that it was not a knife in the man's hand, but rather the man's hand was the knife, and he held it raised level now like a sword and his pace increased, and he was suddenly only fifteen feet away, then ten.

Marcus stepped back and fired, flame erupting from the pistol's snub nose. He was a good shot and the bullet hit home, upper right shoulder, but the man only stumbled and to Marcus's horror no blood seeped from the wound, only a silver viscous liquid, shining like mercury in the sun. The thing stood up and kept coming.

Marcus turned and ran, sprinting down the empty boulevard, his grip tight on the pistol. His breath came in ragged gasps and the boarded-up bars blurred in his side vision as he made for the freeway, half a mile away over a granite-strewn hill. He was young and fast and terror spurred him onwards, but the years of abuse had taken their toll, and adrenaline could not overcome the effects of a decade of alcoholism. He made it two thousand feet before something twisted and a sudden awful pain flared inside of him and he stumbled, going down hard on one knee. It impacted the granite-covered hill and cracked, sending molten pain shooting up his leg.

Marcus cursed and looked behind him and saw the semi driver pursuing him at a dead run, intent as a shark. He sucked in a breath and rose to his feet, shaking from pain and exertion. His knee was throbbing like a capped explosion but he still had hold of the gun and he had to do something.

He leveled the pistol and fired twice, the recoil sending tremors through his body and lighting his knee on fire. The maniac chasing him kept coming. His aim was off. The thing was fifty feet away, closing in, arms gleaming like sheet metal.

Marcus felt bile rising in his throat. He fired again, blew a hole through the semi driver's chest, but the thing only sidestepped and its expression never changed. It was thirty feet and closing. Sprinting.

In desperation, Marcus started running, but his knee gave out under him and he fell to the ground with a yell. He pushed himself forward with the ferocity of a wounded animal and stumbled down the rock-strewn hill towards the simmering freeway, pain lacerating his body. He made it to the guard rail by the culvert and stood up, bracing himself against the rail. Traffic shrieked by him only yards away, blinded by velocity. The semi driver kept coming.

Marcus shouted for help into the chaos of automobiles, voice swallowed by the noise, till he exhausted his dust-scarred breath and turned back to face the semi driver, once more only thirty feet away, once more closing. Marcus was out of options. He raised the pistol and gritted his teeth.

Twenty-five feet.

One more round.

Fifteen feet.

God help me.

The thing pulled back its sword-arm to strike and Marcus's finger squeezed the trigger, but before the projectile had time to leave the barrel something whistled in from behind and blew the semi driver to kingdom come. Marcus registered heat and fire and a roaring void before the implosion sucked away his breath and he collapsed, his good leg buckling as he went down, scraping his back against the guard rail.

His hearing was out for fifteen seconds, so he didn't hear the snarl of the Harley's engine as it rolled off of the freeway, or the no-nonsense tread of leather boots as they approached him. He started violently when a hand gripped him from behind and nearly backhanded his rescuer with the pistol, but his hearing was back by then, and he froze at the words "Come with me if you want to live," spoken in a voice as cold and gruff as an Alpine glacier given breath.