“Lighter,” Justin said in that harsh, deep, reverberating voice.

“What?”

“Give me your lighter. Now!”

Erin fumbled in her clutch purse, spilled out a bottle of pills, a pack of foreign cigarettes, a tampon, and came up with the lighter, holding it out for him, and he cursed. “My hand is . . . ! You have to do it!”

“Do what?” she demanded, desperate just to get away, to run, to hide, to find a place that would serve her enough alcohol to somehow wipe the nightmare from her mind.

“Witnesses,” Justin said coldly.

And in his mind he felt an unsettling pleasure, because now was his time. Now the clear, direct, emotionless reptile that had always been a part of him saw clearly what Erin could not. Or would not.

The first of the passengers were sliding down the inflated ramp. The ramp was at a too-steep angle and a woman fell off halfway down, landing bruised but alive on the runway.

It took Erin a few seconds to understand what Justin was saying, what he was demanding. “No, no, no, I . . . I can’t . . .”

Justin’s massive claw now closed again around her midriff, and the message was clear. “Do it! Do it!”

With trembling fingers, Erin flicked the lighter, a spark, a flame.

Justin used his massive claw to rip her dress, tearing off a long shred, which hung like a limp flag from his pincer. “Light it!”

Shaking so violently she nearly dropped the lighter, Erin set fire to the swatch of fabric.

A passenger saw and shouted, “No, you idiot, there’s jet fuel everywhere!”

“Yeah,” Justin rumbled. “I noticed.”

He tossed the flaming fabric into the shallow pool of fuel that edged toward his claw feet.

Jet fuel is kerosene, and kerosene does not catch fire as quickly as gasoline. The fabric burned blue as Justin threw Erin over one massive shoulder and turned to run, run, run, and behind them came the screams and shouts of “Fire! Fire!”

Monster, Chapter 4