Page 54 of Death Rydes Shotgun

I drop into a chillingly low conversation-like register that cuts right through the wind. “Come out, come out, Harmony. You have nowhere to hide. Might as well come back to the barn and take refuge from the storm.”

A beat of heavy, breathless silence hangs in the air.

Then, her voice explodes out of the darkness, ragged, furious, and laced with pure desperation. “Leave me the fuck alone, Ryder!”

My smile stretches, a dark and wild thing across my face. “Never.”

Before the final syllable leaves my mouth, another blinding flash of lightning tears the sky wide open, turning night into day for two glorious seconds.

Through the white glare, I watch Harmony break out of the thicket and sprint wildly across the small, overgrown clearing toward the dilapidated hunter’s cabin.

That’s it. Good girl.

Her boots slip on the wet grass, but she recovers with feral grace, scrambling up the rotting wooden steps of the porch and throwing her shoulder against the heavy oak front door.

She stumbles inside, and the door slams shut behind her with a resounding, hollow boom.

I take my time crossing the open field.

The rain continues to pound my chest and face, but I don’t acknowledge the cold.

The blood in my veins boils with a dark, roaring fire consuming every rational thought in my head.

All I want is Harmony’s body beneath mine. For her to scream my name into the shadowy night, a desperate prayer for redemption she can only find while I’m buried deep inside of her.

I take the rotting porch steps one at a time, the old wood groaning beneath my weight, until I’m standing directly in front of the old, weather-beaten cabin door.

Desperate to claim my prize, I reach out, taking the rusted iron door handle in my hand, and turn it.

Locked.

I push against the frame with my shoulder.

It doesn’t give an inch.

For as old as this door is, the fucker is still quite sturdy.

From my position with my ear against the door, the sharp, scraping sounds of heavy wooden furniture being dragged across floorboards echoes from the other side.

Seems she’s found several heavy objects within the cabin to shove directly against the doorframe, barricading herself inside like a fortress.

I lean my forehead flat against the cold, wet wood of the door, letting out a quiet chuckle that vibrates through the timber.

“You think a few rotten pieces of wood are going to keep me out, Harmony? You really think you’re safe in there?” I keep my tone calm, testing the absolute limits of her self-preservation instincts.

Stepping back, I let my gaze drift slowly over the front of the cabin.

This aged building is sinking into the earth, its wooden siding twisted and rotting after enduring decades of tough winters.

My eyes lock onto a narrow, high-set window near the side of the porch—the glass long gone, covered only by a sheet of brittle, ancient plywood held in place by rusted iron nails.

As I reach down into my pocket, my fingers curl around the cold, heavy grip of Harmony’s hunting knife.

I walk over to the side window, jam the heavy steel tip of the blade into the seam between the rotting wood and the frame, and pry backward with raw, crushing force.

The rusted nails screech in protest before snapping like brittle twigs, the plywood popping free and falling into the mud with a wet thud.

I pull myself up onto the narrow wooden sill, peering into the pitch-black, shadow-drenched interior of the cabin.