Run, run, run!

Jon raced through the dark city, his sneakers slapping against the wet pavement, his heart pounding so hard he thought it would explode. Piles of dirty slush lined the unfamiliar streets, snow fell from the sky, dancing in the pools of light cast by the streetlamps. Far away he heard the sound of a siren and over it all the muted strains of a Christmas carol.

"God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay ..."

Where the hell was he?

And who was chasing him?

Killer.

The word rang through his brain.

What?

The one who wants you dead.

As in dead and buried. Six feet underground, covered in ripe soil ...

No!

Breathless, he glanced over his shoulder and saw a looming shadow, dark and swift, a weapon in one gloved hand as it swept the poorly lit streets.

God help me.

Jon turned sharply, slipping and catching himself with one hand, to sprint forward, into a narrow alley, where the cheery Christmas lights no longer blinked, where only dark oblivion awaited him.

Please don't let this be a dead end, he silently prayed as the sounds of the carol oozed through the night.

"... to save us all from Satan's power when we have gone astray ..."

He nearly ran into the brick wall.

Oh, God, a blind alley!

He heard the sounds of his pursuer so close behind, felt his skin crawl, and his soul go numb as he turned and knew that there was no way out ...

Jon Summers opened his mouth to scream ...

And woke up with a jolt. He was shaking, the sheets of his twin bed wet with sweat, his heart tattooing in his eardrums as the recurring dream ... the nightmare he knew to be a premonition, faded into the gray light of dawn.

He let out his breath and hoped to God that he hadn't screamed aloud and woken his mother. Fingers twisting in the bed sheets, he slowly let out his breath and knew, deep in his heart, that his dream was a foreshadowing of events to come. They might not play out exactly as he'd envisioned, but they sure as hell were going to play out.

Oh, God, why me? he wondered as he always did whenever a vision passed behind his eyes. The ones at night scared the hell out of him and the ones during the day ... well, he just had to hide those or else all the other kids would think he was a freak — not that they didn't already.

Kicking off the tangled sheet, he ran a hand around his jaw and felt a little bit of stubble on his chin. He needed a smoke and knew his mother wouldn't approve. She didn't approve of much he did these days, but she'd really flip out if she knew about this latest vision. Swiping the sweat from his forehead, he pushed Houndog out of the way, climbed out of bed, and plowed through the towels and clothes on the floor of his closet. Without turning on a light, he kneeled down, his fingers skimming the baseboard until he found the spot where he'd rolled up the carpet and cut a hole in the floorboards this past summer. Inside was his stash of all things his mother considered contraband.

Slowly he lifted the board and reached into the dark hole. His fingers moved deftly over an old copy of Penthouse he'd found in the recycling bins just outside of town, a jackknife he'd purchased with his own money, a box of condoms Billy Eagle had swiped from an older kid, all the cash he had in the world — about seventy-eight bucks — and a framed picture of Jennifer Caruso. Finally, the tips of his fingers brushed against his pack of cigarettes and lighter.

Not making a sound, he padded barefoot, wearing only his flannel boxers, to the window. Houndog let out a muffled bark as Jon unlocked the latch and shoved the glass open, but the half-grown pup didn't move from his spot on the bed. Jon propped the window up with a stick, then climbed outside to the roof, where he sat on the old asphalt shingles. It was cool outside, the air brisk. Winter was coming, the night air frosty. Thousands of stars glittered in the sky and a solitary cloud passed in front of a lazy half-moon, just as it had in his vision.

Shit. His heart was beating about a million times a minute. Hands trembling, he lit up and felt the warmth of smoke roll down into his lungs. What's wrong with me? Why can't I be normal? The same old questions he'd been asking himself for years rambled through his head, but tonight they seemed even more critical than ever. Jennifer Caruso wouldn't go out with a weirdo like him, someone who could touch her and look into the future, not when she could have other, normal boys who played football like Dennis Flanders.

He drew hard on his Marlboro again and peered through the boughs of the pine trees surrounding this old place his mother rented. Five miles outside of town, the scrap of land was isolated except for the neighboring spread, the McIntyre ranch, which had stood empty for a few weeks, ever since old Eli had been found dead as a door nail on his kitchen floor. The old man had had himself a killer of a heart attack and no one had discovered him for three days. But Jon had known — had sensed something was wrong. He'd felt Eli's whenever the wind had shifted and blown past Eli's house before touching his skin. Jon had experienced a feeling — the kiss of death, he called it. It had really given him the creeps.

He'd been the one to call the sheriff's department, anonymously of course, from a phone booth in town, and a deputy had been dispatched to find Eli still clutching his chest as he lay on the cracked linoleum only a few feet from the phone that he'd tried and failed to reach.

Jon still missed the old coot. Eli hadn't seemed to mind that he was different. For as long as Jon could remember, the leathery old farmer had been kind to him, showing him how to whittle on his back porch, or pointing out constellations in the heavens, or letting him have a fiery swallow of his own home-brewed brand of moonshine.

Helluva thing — the old man being dead.

"Son of a bitch." Eli was the closest thing he had to a grown-up friend. He studied the red embers of his cigarette, then took a long drag. He calmed a little as the nicotine hit his bloodstream. Mom would have a fit if she thought he was smoking — really smoking — but he didn't care. He was fifteen, old enough to make some of his own decisions.

He couldn't tell her about this vision tonight because she'd really wig out if she thought he was seeing his own death. She was wigged out enough already. He didn't blame her. It wasn't easy to be the mother of a freak, especially not in a town as small as Hopewell-damn-Oregon.

Wrapping his arms around his knees, he closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, forcing himself to think about his vision and analyze it. His fear had subsided enough for him to consider what it meant and he had to search it through — examine it from all sides — before he could lay it to rest.

In the dream it was night and he was in an unfamiliar city, a busy city that smelled of sea water, gasoline fumes, and something else — pine, maybe? Cedar? Christmas? He was running hard and fast, barely able to breathe, his lungs burning for more frigid air. Cold, mind- numbing fear chased him as...