Chapter 9 - The Breakdown On Route 9
The rusted Ford station wagon groaned as Costlow forced the gearshift into drive, the transmission whining like a trapped animal as we bounced out of the unpaved lot and onto the empty two-lane blacktop of Route 9. The engine sputtered, coughing black exhaust into the damp night air, but it kept moving, carrying us away from the churchyard before the pursuing sedan could circle the block.
We drove north for over two hours, watching the mile markers count down toward the state line while the radio hissed with static and distant thunderstorm warnings. My hands were still shaking in my lap, the manila envelope clutched so tightly the corners were crushed. Inside were two unfamiliar faces staring back at us from laminated cards bearing names that weren't ours.
"We're almost across," Costlow said, his knuckles gripping the steering wheel so hard his skin was translucent. His face was bathed in the dim, sickly green glow of the dashboard lights, the fresh sweat beading across his forehead where his hair fell in dark strands. "Once we cross the county bridge, Marcus's local muscle loses jurisdiction. We find a place to lay low for a week, figure out what to do with the drive."
As if punishing us for the optimism, the engine gave a sudden, violent shudder. A sharp metallic ping echoed from under the hood, followed by a thick plume of white steam billowing up through the wiper blades. The temperature gauge spiked straight into the red.
"Damn it," Costlow muttered, pumping the gas pedal. The station wagon sputtered, lost power, and coasted to a grinding halt on the shoulder of the darkened highway.
We were miles from the nearest town, surrounded by towering stands of pine trees that swallowed the moonlight. The silence of the woods was heavy, broken only by the ticking of the cooling exhaust pipe and the occasional rush of a distant transport truck barreling down the opposite lane.
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"Grab your bag," Costlow said, popping the hood to reveal a tangled mess of smoking hoses and a cracked radiator block. "We can't stay on the road. If a patrol car or one of Marcus's scouts drives by, we're sitting ducks."
We scrambled over a steep roadside ditch, pushing through scratchy brambles and damp ferns until the highway vanished behind a dense wall of timber. The mud sucked at our shoes with every step, and the chill of the night air cut straight through my sweater. Up ahead, half-hidden among the overgrown brush and birch trees, the dark, rotting silhouette of an abandoned logging cabin loomed against the starless sky.
