The Demon Road Trilogy: The Complete Collection: Demon Road; Desolation; American Monsters

The pickup tried to get away and the Charger rammed into it once again. Milo’s smile broadened and, when he opened his mouth, red light shone out between his white teeth.

Something bright arced in the sky. Amber tried to shout a warning, but it was too late, and the brightness exploded across the hood and flames covered the windshield.

Milo twisted the wheel and there was a new noise, a rapid popping, like fireworks. It took Amber a moment to realise they were being shot at. The bullets punctured the side of the car and cracked the rear windshield and Milo grunted, twisted in his seat. The Charger hit something and bounced and suddenly the sound of the road beneath them vanished, and they dropped, and Amber screamed and Glen screamed, and they were nothing but a fireball dropping into darkness—

—and then they crunched into the slope and Milo wrenched the wheel, using the brakes and gas pedal to propel them, slalom-like, round the trees and boulders that dotted the hillside.

The slope flattened out and the Charger crunched into the scrub and the earth and then rolled to a stop on a narrow little road. The last of the flames died on the hood.

Milo turned his head to Amber. The red glow faded from his eyes, as whatever was lighting him from within slowly extinguished. She stared at him. Didn’t say anything.

“Glen,” he said gruffly. “You okay?”

“No,” said Glen, clambering slowly up. “Is it over? What happened?”

“We were led into an ambush.”

“They knew we were coming?” he asked, and peered out. “Are we safe?”

Milo got out without answering. Amber unlocked her door, but had to lean back and kick it to get it open.

The Charger was wrecked. The hood, where the Molotov cocktail had hit, was a blistered mess of crumpled metal. Both doors were badly dented, the frame on the passenger side buckled. The rear windshield had two bullet holes in it. The driver’s side had plenty more.

“Sorry about your car,” Amber said dully.

Milo circled it, limping. The left leg of his jeans was soaked in something dark.

“You’ve been shot,” said Amber. Then, louder, “Oh my God, you’ve been shot!”

“Just a graze,” Milo responded. “I’ll be all right by morning.”

She ran over to him. “You’ve been shot, Milo! Look at the blood! You’re leaving bloody footprints behind you!”

“I’ll be all right by morning,” he repeated, removed his arm from her grip, and got back behind the wheel.

Amber would have stayed where she was, but the adrenaline was wearing off and now she was feeling the cold. She got back in the car.

“What do we do now?” Glen asked.

“Get the blankets out,” said Milo. “We’re spending the night here.”

“What if they come for us? They have machine guns.”

“The car’s not going anywhere,” said Milo, “and neither are we. If they come for us, they come for us.”

“And you expect us to sleep?”

“You do what you want,” said Milo. “But me, I’m tired, and I want to close my eyes.”

And, for the first time since Amber had known him, Milo did just that behind the wheel of his car.

There were moments, in the time it took her to fall asleep, where she thought death had claimed Milo without her noticing, and each time she’d freeze, coldness spreading from her heart until she heard, very faintly, the sound of his breathing.

Very faintly.

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WHEN SHE WOKE, it was morning, and the sun was doing its best to get rid of the chill that the night had brought. Milo was outside, walking in a circle. He was wearing new jeans, and his limp was barely noticeable.

Keeping the blanket wrapped round her, Amber pulled the handle of the door. It swung open smoothly. She got out, stretched.

“How’s the leg?” she asked.

Milo stopped walking. “Good,” he answered. “It was just a graze, like I said.”

He looked normal. Normal eyes, normal mouth, normal skin. No horns. He was lying, though, and, by the way he was looking at her, he was daring her to call him on it. But she didn’t. He was entitled to his secrets. He’d earned that much from her.

She turned to get back into the car, and actually took a step back in surprise. “Jesus.”

The Charger’s hood was unblemished. Its dents were gone. No bullet holes and no scratches. It gleamed in the morning sun, not even a trace of dust on its glorious blackness.

“Turns out the damage wasn’t that bad,” said Milo.

Amber grunted as Glen sat up in the back and yawned. Milo got in, slid the key into the ignition and twisted.

The Charger woke immediately with a deep and healthy rumble.

It took half an hour, but they found their way back to the road they’d been on, and fifteen minutes after that they crested a dusty hill, and stopped. Below them stood a ramshackle house that looked like it had been built in stages by very different builders who only had a crooked eye in common. Parked outside was a badly damaged pickup truck.

“That’s them!” Glen said needlessly.

Milo shared a look with Amber, and inched the Charger forward. He put it in neutral and turned off the engine. They rolled down the gentle hill, accompanied only by the crunch of wheels on dirt. They got to the bottom and Milo steered them behind the pickup, and stopped.

He got out with his gun in his hand, and as he attached his holster to his belt Amber and Glen climbed out after him. Amber kept low, remembering the sound of the machine gun from last night. Glen kept even lower.

They moved quickly but quietly to the house. Milo peered through the window for a few moments. Satisfied, he went to the door and got ready to kick. Something in his face changed, though, and instead he leaned forward, tried the handle. It turned, and the door opened, and he shrugged. Straightening, he holstered his gun and walked in, Amber and Glen at his heels.

The living room was barely habitable. An old TV sat huddled on a crate, cornered by a dirty couch and a filthy armchair. They walked straight through to the kitchen, where two men sat eating cereal. Ralphie and Ossie, presumably. The brothers looked at them, frowning, like their arrival just didn’t compute. The spoon in the bigger one’s hand hovered halfway to his waiting mouth. He was a tall, stout man, his curly hair cut tight, fully dressed in jeans and an oil-stained T-shirt. The smaller one had his arm jammed inside the cereal box. He had a beard and a stupid Mohawk, and he only wore an old pair of boxers.

“Boys,” said Milo, nodding at them.

The smaller man looked at all of them, one at a time. At no stage did comprehension dawn on his overfed face.

“You’re the people from last night,” said the bigger guy.

“Yes, we are,” said Milo. “You’re Ralphie, am I right? We were told you were the smart one.” He turned to the smaller man, the one still wearing the look of dumb confusion. “And that makes you Ossie. So which one of you was in the pickup, and which one of you had the gun?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Ralphie, putting his spoon back in the bowl.