Page 153 of The Wrong Play

If Matty, Parker, and I actually made it into this society, we were revamping their trial system immediately.

A second shot whizzed past me, closer this time, nearly grazing my shoulder.

Okay. Less funny.

I ducked, rolling under a low-hanging branch, my muscles burning. This extra workout wasn’t ideal, if I was being honest.

The trees were thinning ahead—maybe, probably, hopefully. Then, a faint sound reached me, low but steady—an engine.

A car.

I veered toward it, ignoring the sharp sting of a branch slashing across my cheek as I pushed forward. The forest spat me out onto asphalt, my boots skidding slightly against the rough pavement.

A weak street lamp flickered in the distance, casting a dim, stuttering glow over the road. And just beyond the curve ahead, I saw it—a gas station, glowing faintly, a beacon of questionable salvation.

Then—headlights.

A car barreled toward me, cutting through the dark. My stomach clenched, but I stumbled forward anyway, throwing up an arm, hoping like hell they saw me in time because being hit by a car wasn’t on my approved list of how I would die.

The tires screeched, rubber burning against pavement as the driver slammed the brakes, stopping just inches away.

A beat of silence.

Then the window rolled down, and a middle-aged man, clutching a Styrofoam cup, blinked at me like he’d never seen something more shocking in his life.

“Hell’s bells, kid. You trying to get yourself killed?”

I held up a finger. Because, one, I was slightly out of breath. And two…this guy could be my ticket out of whateverBlair Witchfever dream I’d been dropped into.

“Lost—got separated—no phone.” My words came out uneven. “Can you—take me?”

Wow. Fuck. How far had they chased me? A hundred miles?

The man’s gaze flicked behind me, into the woods. His lips pressed into a thin line, like he was weighing his options.

I didn’t blame him.

Judging by what I could see, I was several inches taller than him and outweighed him by all muscle. Not to mention, I looked like I’d just crawled out of a horror movie.

Dirt-streaked. Sweat-drenched. Probably one bad decision away from complete feral.

Then, there was a new sound…of boots. Pounding against the asphalt. Steady. Purposeful. Way too close.

My stomach twisted as I turned, and there—emerging from the trees, stepping onto the road—a masked figure. Just standing there. Still. Watching. Waiting.

More shadows lurked behind them, barely visible in the darkness, shifting like specters at the tree line. The air thickened, pressing against my chest, heavy with something unspoken, something dangerous.

The man in the car followed my gaze, his face draining of color as he muttered, “Nope.” His grip tightening around his Styrofoam cup like it was a lifeline.

Before I could react, he slammed the gas and the tires screeched, the car fishtailing slightly, and then…he was gone.

Rude.

The red taillights of my only shot at escape disappeared around the bend, leaving me standing in the weak glow of the flickering gas station sign. The distant hum of the car’s engine faded, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the whisper of shoes on pavement…way too many shoes.

The masked figure in the road still hadn’t moved. But the others, they were shifting, creeping forward at the edges of my vision, coming out of the trees like the zombies in that show Matty liked to watch.

I blew out a slow breath, rolling my shoulders.Think,Thatcher.Use that big brain.

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