Jamie fumbled, pulled his camping lighter from his pocket. Riley threw the bottle into the fuel tank’s open valve. Jamie flicked the lighter. The flame caught the trail of black ichor—which burned like gasoline.

“Oh, I like this one,” it said, flicking the bottle out like a splinter. It grabbed Riley by the throat, lifted her until her feet dangled. “You have good fear. Smoky. Spicy. And your brother…” It turned its head 180 degrees to stare at Jamie. “He smells like vanilla. Sweet. I’ll save him for dessert.”

“Nowhere, apparently.” Riley grabbed her phone. No signal. The map on her lap showed a dashed line—an old county road decommissioned in the 1980s. “We walk. There was a church back about a mile.”

“I’ve been waiting for fresh ones.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She turned the key. Nothing but a dry, death-rattle click. Jamie stirred, wiping drool from his chin.

Riley grabbed Jamie and ran. They didn’t stop. They ran through the burning church, through the graveyard, past the corpse in the culvert, whose mouth had finally fallen silent. They reached the Impala. The keys were still in the ignition.

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