The Saint was still running.
This had been the fifth 'ambush' since the Saint Eaters had left, and each time, it was like hitting a rock with an egg.
Complete with the gooey blood and flesh left on the ground when the dead were finally dragged away.
It was a waste of perfectly good food, if you asked her. But no one ever did. It was almost like the guys had forgotten the fact that she couldn't live on chocolate and jerky and whatever else she brought out of her space.
Sera watched almost absently through the cracked windshield as the Saint became nothing more than a small, dark shape cutting through the dust.
She had been trying to suppress her hunger, her need to consume, but the panic coming off this man was bright enough to smell.
The rest of his biker gang… or whatever they considered themselves to be, were down already.
Or maybe they were just pretending to be. The gunfire had turned sporadic, fewer rounds, more screaming.
