Vox Mentis

"Guess it's a good thing you can't do that magic fucking word nonsense and make me do it myself. It'd be a lot quieter."

Gallows humor!

Maybe those Wolf people will hear the shots and get him after he shoots you. You can hope, right?

You sink to the ground, because it doesn't matter anymore. You give up. You stop thinking, even as your brain screams in fear. "Guess it's a good thing you can't do that magic fucking bare word nonsense and make me do it myself. It'd be a lot quieter." You're going to pass out. The man will shoot your unconscious body in the snow. That's probably for the best.

Time passes. You raise your head. The tall man is still there. "What did you say?"

"The... I... too bad you can't do that magic fucking word nonsense and make me do it myself?"

"You said magic fucking bare words."

"I did?" The silence stretches. "Are you going to shoot me?"

"I'm thinking about it."

Your bowels shiver.

The man lowers his shotgun. "She made you forget," says the man. "You really don't know who you are."

You sit in the snow, teeth chattering.

"New plan," says the man. "Get in the van."

~

The world slides by in exit-ramps and yellow-lit gas stations and trees dressed in snow. The van's wipers thump. Your eye throbs. The driver's window is half-cranked, letting in furious air.

The man glances at you. "You feel okay? You look washed out." He gestures. "Your face."

Theoretically, the snow banked up alongside the freeway is a couple of feet deep. You could possibly survive a leap. Then: flailing through snow. Hearing the van brake behind you. The door pop open. Not so good.

The man waggles a dash control. "Heater doesn't work. I need the window open to keep from fogging up."

Practically, it's hugely unlikely you can get the door open with your feet. Practically, you aren't going anywhere until the man decides to pull over.

"You actually look a little hypoglycemic," says the man.

You could kick. You could try and force a crash. A problem here is the man is wearing a seatbelt and you're not. A crash is therefore likely to hurt you a lot more. It's a last-resort kind of plan.

"Stop it," says the man. "You're not going anywhere so stop fucking thinking about it."

You look out the side window.

"Next gas station, I'll pull over," says the man. "Get you some jelly beans."

~

You turn in to a glowing gas station and stop at the farthest pump from the store. "Okay," says the man. "Before we proceed, some ground rules." He snaps his fingers, because you're staring at the store. "No running. No screaming for help. No mouthing secret messages to the cashier, looking directly into security cameras, saying you need the bathroom then locking yourself in, et cetera, et cetera. Doing any of those things will cause me" - he raps the shotgun, the nose of which pokes out from the footwell - "to use this. Understand? Not on you. You, I need. I count three people in there. Do you want me to shoot three people? Because I don't. So don't make me shoot three people. Any questions?"