Morning — Desert — A Road Leading to the Mountains
The first morning light hit Lloyd’s face.
Yellow and pale.
His hands were folded over his stomach, bare white fingers on the black fabric of his jacket.
His breathing was calm — too calm.
As if even in waking, he was conserving energy.
John glanced at him from the corner of his eye.
His hand was on the steering wheel, his eyes on the road, but half his attention was on Lloyd.
“Are you alright, Lloyd? Should I pull the car over?”
Lloyd shook his head.
No — but not fast, not firm.
Just a small movement, tired, forced.
“No… just…”
His voice was hoarse.
Not from crying, from something like nausea.
“…I’ve never taken a car trip before. I’m just feeling nauseous.”
John said nothing.
He just placed his hand on Lloyd’s shoulder and pressed.
Briefly.
Meaning both “he’ll be fine” and “hold on.”
And at that moment — John’s phone rang.
An annoying sound, tinny and rough, belonging to a cheap mobile.
Its screen lit up in the dim morning light: unknown number.
John answered.
He pressed the speaker button.
The sound of static and a dial tone came through, then — Gary.
He was panting.
As if he had been running.
“Can you hear me?”
John said: “Yeah, we can hear you.”
Gary: “Good… is Lloyd there?”
Lloyd leaned forward a little.
Toward the phone.
“Gary, is that you? Are you alright?”
Gary’s voice softened — not weaker, softer.
As if he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Lloyd… I’m glad you’re alright. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”
Lloyd answered.
His voice was gentle:
“It doesn’t matter, Gary. And thank you for helping me. So… do you have information on Firan?”
A brief pause.
Lloyd glanced at John.
Then back to the phone.
“Wait… the FBI isn’t listening to us?”
Gary: “No, this is a public phone.”
Lloyd raised an eyebrow.
His face showed nothing — but at the bottom of his voice was something like genuine surprise:
“A public phone? How does that work?”
From the other end of the line, a third voice came.
Scratchy, hurried, as if someone was swallowing a bite of breakfast while talking:
“You don’t know what a public phone is?!”
It was Early.
Gary’s brother.
Bald head and wheat-colored skin and always in a hurry.
Lloyd answered, emotionless, unchanged:
“No. My phone has more security than the president’s. I don’t even have international internet.”
A short burst of laughter came from the other end.
It was Early.
Or maybe Gary.
It wasn’t clear.
Early: “How cruel life is…”
John shouted into the phone.
Not loud, firm:
“Enough. Do you know where Firan is now?”
Gary answered.
He got serious.
His voice was no longer hurried — it was professional.
“Yes… I found her. Unfortunately… I mean, Bikova Street. Number 235.”
The sound of crumpling paper came through.
Then keys.
Then a door.
“Alright… I have to go. Miss Lisa wants coffee.”
Lloyd: “Are you chasing girls again?!”
Gary shouted.
Not angry — protesting:
“No! Absolutely not! I only want Amelia!”
From the other end of the line, Early’s voice came.
Quieter, as if talking to himself:
“We know Alice is in Russia… with the Brooks family. The same mafia family.”
Silence.
Lloyd placed his hand on the dashboard.
His fingers unconsciously tapped on the cold plastic. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
“Gary… give me the FBI number. I’ll surrender myself.”
Gary: “Why?!”
“I don’t want to see that girl — Alia.”
Early laughed again from the other end of the line.
Short.
Like a cough.
“You mean the eldest daughter of the Brooks family? Whoa… have you fallen in love like Gary too?!”
Lloyd: “No.”
Early: “All lovers in the world say that at first. They hate each other… but love comes! And besides, she’s beautiful… she’s your age!”
Lloyd hung up the phone.
Without goodbye.
Without explanation.
Just his finger went to the red button and the screen went black.
He stared out the window.
At the desert.
At the road.
And quietly, in a voice with nothing behind it, he said:
“I’d better have a little peace.”
John glanced in the rearview mirror.
And saw them.
Six black dots.
In the distance.
Getting closer.
Fast.
Much faster than an ordinary car.
“Lloyd… can you drive?”
Lloyd sat up.
He turned.
He fixed his emotionless gaze on John.
“Not at all. I can’t even drive in a video game. In reality — absolutely not.”
John tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
Firm.
Lloyd looked into the side mirror.
The cars had drawn closer.
Six of them.
Black.
No headlights.
“How many people are after us?”
John didn’t answer.
He just pressed his foot on the gas.
The speed climbed.
130.
150.
170.
The road fled beneath the wheels.
The white lines in the middle of the road had become a solid line.
The wind wasn’t blowing cold through the window — they weren’t letting it.
But its sound came.
Like a scream.
Lloyd held on.
He pulled the black glove onto his hand.
He moved his fingers beneath the fabric.
Ready.
The cars caught up.
Close.
Beside them.
The windows rolled down.
Men in black suits — the same ones.
The same white masks with no design.
But this time something protruded from behind their shoulders — tendrils.
Black.
Long.
Some were unfurled, like snakes, like roots, like things that should have stayed underground.
John shouted: “Lloyd! Use your supernatural power!”
Lloyd rolled down the window.
The cold, dry desert air hit his face.
He extended his black-gloved hand out.
He opened his fingers.
His palm — was nothing.
It was cold.
Ordinary.
Then — vapor.
Vapor burst from his palm.
White.
Cold.
Thick.
Like the air that comes from your mouth in winter — but a thousand times more.
And with pressure.
Pressure that shook the car window.
The vapor spread across the road.
It sank down.
Clung to the asphalt.
And the asphalt froze.
Not dew, not moisture — ice.
A thin crust of ice covered the entire width of the road.
In a few seconds.
In the blink of an eye.
The cars behind them skidded.
Their wheels locked.
The scream of tires on ice was a scream that settled in the bones.
One of the cars spun, collided with the car beside it, both were hurled to the side of the road and sank into the sand.
Smoke rose from under their hoods.
But four others — leaped over the ice.
Not cars — motorcycles.
Four motorcycles that had detached from behind the cars.
Their rear wheels slipped on the ice, but their front wheels landed on dry asphalt, where the vapor hadn’t reached.
The motorcycles wobbled, their riders were skilled — too skilled.
Their bodies bent, found their angles, and straightened again.
And the riders — wore no helmets.
Their faces were those same white masks.
Black suits.
And from behind their shoulders, the tendrils had unfurled further.
Longer.
Faster.
Lloyd watched.
His cold, emotionless gaze swept over the motorcycles.
“That move… it’s impossible even in Bollywood films.”
John kept his foot on the gas.
180.
190.
The speedometer was trembling.
The motorcycles drew closer.
Very close.
One of the riders — white mask, black gloves — stretched out his hand.
The tendril from behind his shoulder swayed and swung toward the rear window.
The sound of impact — like stone on metal.
John turned the steering wheel.
The car went left.
Toward an oncoming car from the other direction.
It was no soft collision — metal and metal, paint and paint, and a sound that jolted Lloyd in his seat.
But the car didn’t go off the road.
John kept control.
Lloyd extended his hand out the right window.
Vapor again.
This time directly at the motorcyclist’s face.
Ice settled on the white mask, on the black suit, on the gloves.
The motorcyclist slipped — not on the road, on the seat.
His hands came off the handlebars.
The tendrils behind his shoulders locked for a moment and then — went slack.
The motorcycle slid out from under him.
The rider fell face-first onto the ice, slid several meters, and remained at the side of the road.
Motionless.
Perhaps dead.
Perhaps just frozen.
Three remained.
And ahead — a tunnel.
The mouth of the tunnel was black.
A blackness that swallowed the morning light.
The lights inside the tunnel hadn’t come on yet, or perhaps they never would.
Only darkness was there.
Darkness that could be a place for an ambush, a place for an end.
Lloyd looked at John.
John looked at the mirror.
The motorcycles were three meters behind.
Very close.
Very fast.
John said in his thoughts — fast, broken: “Because of the previous battle with that demon… I’m injured. I won’t last long.”
He tightened his hand on the steering wheel.
“Lloyd… when we reach the tunnel… do whatever you can.”
Lloyd didn’t answer.
He just fixed his gaze on the mouth of the tunnel.
On the darkness.
On something he didn’t know was waiting for them inside.
And he pressed the gas in his mind — though his foot was nowhere near it.
To be continued…