How Did I Get Here?

The roar of the engine filled the cramped space as Lance's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. The Corolla shuddered beneath him, every bump on the asphalt pounding through the frame like a heartbeat gone haywire.

Behind them, the black SUV surged forward like a predator tasting blood, headlights slicing through the darkness in twin white spears. Muzzle flashes lit the windshield from behind. Bullets tore past with vicious snaps, biting into metal and glass. One ricocheted off the passenger-side mirror, sending a spiderweb of cracks along the edge of the glass.

Dario's ears flattened. He pressed himself against the back seat, growling low, the sound barely audible over the shriek of tires and the thunder of gunfire. The noise rattled his ribs.

Dani leaned forward from the passenger seat, her voice clipped. "They don't want that milk back."

Lance didn't answer immediately. His hands were trembling. The steering wheel slick beneath his fingers—sweat, or maybe the pale secretion again. He didn't want to look.

He forced his breath to slow. Shallow, tight draws in and out. It wasn't working.

"This is insane!" he snapped. "You stole some eldritch milk carton and now they're trying to kill us over it?"

Dani didn't blink. "It's not milk. Not exactly. They engineered it—some kind of bioweapon. Or worse."

"Worse than bioweapon milk?!"

"If it falls into the wrong hands—let's just say the world doesn't get to keep spinning."

"Fantastic!" Lance shouted, voice breaking mid-word. "Just tell me why it's in my damn cupholder!"

"They picked you," she said grimly, "because they thought you wouldn't matter. Background noise. A nobody. Good bait."

The words hit harder than the bullets.

Lance swallowed, barely registering the next turn until Dani barked, "Left—now!"

He yanked the wheel. The Corolla screeched as it careened onto a narrower road, skidding dangerously close to the guardrail. Behind them, the SUV fishtailed, trying to follow.

From the back seat, Dario growled sharply, eyes locked on the milk jug. It hadn't moved. Still sweating.

Too much.

Too warm.

The plastic felt alive. Like it knew things.

The jug pulsed with condensation, small blisters of moisture ballooning and collapsing like it was breathing.

Lance stole a glance at it—and then back at the road. "I swear that thing's watching me."

"You don't want to know what it's watching for," Dani muttered.

He laughed, high and broken. "Awesome. Mystery milk that wants to see me crash and burn. Same, honestly."

The sarcasm cracked. His voice wavered as panic flared behind his ribs.

Bullets ripped past again. One shattered the rear windshield. Glass exploded inward. Dario yelped and ducked behind the seats.

"Jesus—!" Lance gasped. "Okay. I'm not built for this. I fix printers. I reboot idiot-proof laptops. I eat leftover pizza on Thursdays and sometimes remember to pay my phone bill. This?! This is—!"

"Keep driving!" Dani barked. "We're not out yet."

"I'm not a spy!"

"No one said you were!"

"Then why does this feel like a Mission: Impending Pancake?!"

Dani reached across the seat, adjusted the rearview mirror, and flicked the safety off her sidearm. "Because it is."

A bullet hit the tire.

The car lurched violently.

Lance nearly lost control, his palms slipping as the wheel jolted. He screamed—not a word, just raw panic, loud and guttural.

"Drive, drive, drive—!"

He sucked in air like it might vanish, lungs constricting under invisible weight. He could feel the sweat dripping—too thick, too pale.

Milk.

It rolled down his cheek, dripping from his chin onto the seatbelt.

Dario licked at it once—then sneezed and growled at nothing, like something sour twisted in the air.

"Don't drink my stress milk, man!" Lance wheezed.

Another bullet punched into the trunk. The whole chassis shook. Lance's arms quivered. His vision blurred from more than speed—shock setting in.

The milk jug hummed.

No, sang. Just low enough for the ear to pretend it wasn't real.

A melody with no rhythm. No lyrics. Just… awareness.

"Dani," Lance rasped, voice thin, fraying, "I don't want to do this anymore."

Her tone softened, almost. "We're almost clear."

"I'm not you," he said. "I can't be cold. Or calm. I'm—I'm the guy who fixes the ink tray and cries in his car before work."

"You're also the guy who didn't crash during that turn," she said. "You're still driving."

He blinked rapidly, breath ragged. The adrenaline hadn't stopped. The milk was still sweating. The gunfire was still echoing.

And the road ahead was splitting—literally fracturing beneath the headlights like it didn't believe in gravity anymore.

"Uh—uhh—"

"Hold on!"

The car hit the fracture and launched into the air for half a breathless second.

Lance screamed.

Dani didn't.

When they landed—rough, bone-rattling, but still moving—the SUV had vanished behind the bend.

The silence was instant and violent.

Lance panted, his body shaking. He could barely unclench his fingers from the wheel.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. I'm alive. We're alive."

The milk jug was gone.

He froze.

"Dani—"

"I see it," she said.

The jug was now in the backseat. Sitting next to Dario.

Still sealed.

Still sweating.

Warm.

Watching.