Don stepped out of the Mustang, his boots crunching against the gravel on the side of the road.
The fog swirled around him as he surveyed the aftermath of the chaos he'd left behind. His superhuman senses were sharp, picking up the subtle sounds of distant grunts and groans.
There was no time to waste. More could be coming, and he had to finish this up quickly.
Crossing the road quickly, he headed straight for the wreckage of the overturned truck. The stench of diesel fuel mixed with the iron tang of blood filled the misty air.
The truck's head was upside down, a splintered log having run clean through it.
Don knelt by the shattered driver's window and peered inside. What he saw made his stomach twist, even with his heightened resilience.
The driver—a middle-aged man—was pinned to his seat by a piece of jagged wood that had impaled him through the chest. His face was ghostly pale, blood leaking from his mouth and nose.