 
### CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

Prelude

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

End Note

Other Works

Copyright Page
PART ONE

THE FALL

Robert J. Duperre
"Everything you cherish  
throws you over in the end.  
Thorns will grab your ankles  
from the gardens that you tend."  
Robert Hunter  
_Aim at the Heart_
For Connor, Tristen, and Legacy

Always remember, the only limits we have

are the ones we set for ourselves.

I love you all.

## PRELUDE

The new day's sun peers out over the rippling ocean water, its light transforming the waves into an army of wild horses that pound the shore's pristine sand. It is so bright that it seems as if the days will go on like this forever.

From the rear of this gleaming white landscape rises a sheer cliff. A young girl stands on its precipice, the wind causing her long red hair to flutter. She gazes out at the deceptively barren sea, drinking in the wonder of its unknown treasures.

This girl of fourteen knows little more than the island kingdom she calls home. She was just a baby, an untapped vessel, when she and her clan arrived. This thought causes her mind to wander. Though she was too young to remember, the stories her Teacher has told her paint a vivid picture.

They were delivered to paradise on a single ship, fifty-four individuals of varying backgrounds, landing on this very beach. They were alone and afraid, with nothing but their thoughts and ambition to surge them through each passing day. Yet in spite of their isolation and the struggle their civilized brains experienced in trying to adapt to an uncivilized realm, they managed.

The isolation lifted when the others came. Ship after ship—some large fishing boats like their own, some nothing more than rafts—drifted in from every direction, lured to Eden by the same unseen Star of Bethlehem that guided her own people. A hundred different factions with almost as many different languages, they were greeted with the love of lost siblings. Soon their society numbered in the thousands. The early struggles with communication were enormous ( _At times I wish we had a Mandarax_ , Teacher had told her once, and of course made her explore the meaning of such an odd statement for herself), __ but again they managed, just as they had in the years leading up to their departure from their once and future homelands. Nothing as trivial as language could stop the forward momentum of survival and expansion.

Teacher is full of such wisdom-filled nuggets.

The young girl licks her lips and turns toward the docks at the far end of the beach, nestled in a rocky inlet. Vast arrays of seafaring vessels are anchored there, bobbing up and down with the waves, just as they have for thirteen years. People hustle about on the rickety boards, loading the ships with crates of supplies. She sighs, knowing they won't aimlessly drift for much longer. She is going to miss this place.

A pair of heavy, comforting hands fall on her shoulders and she turns around. The two most important people in her life stand before her, gazing down with loving adoration.

"Hi Mom, hi Dad," she says.

"Hey there, Izzy," her father replies. He bends down and embraces her. His hold is tight but comforting, and it tells her she doesn't need to be alone, that she can concede to her doubts and let someone else be strong for her. She can't help but think it's the last time she'll feel this way.

Her mother takes her left hand, her father her right, and together they walk along the sandy path that leads down the slope of the cliff. At the base the land flattens out. They wander through a valley where domiciles constructed from palm trees and tropical pines form the foundation of what had become their town—one of fifteen such settlements that pepper the island's surface. This, too, she will miss.

Her mother squeezes her hand. The girl can sense she is nervous, and with good reason. This is her daughter's moment of truth, her time to shine or die trying. No one can blame her for this, for the girl, herself, is petrified.

She knows what will happen next—or at least has a vague notion. She has been trained since birth for the coming events. She understands her place and what she must do. But an empty feeling eats away at her just the same, a basin of loneliness and distrust that begs to be satisfied. The looks on the faces of those they pass don't help. Though she loves her people she can't help but feel disdain, as well. They stare at her with equal parts awe and fear, as if she is some odd and frightening creature that only just now landed in their midst. She feels alone and vulnerable, distant from their lives and futures, even though, as Teacher and Mother have told her, their future lies solely with her. It is a tedious incongruity she has to bear, but she doesn't have to like it.

The family reaches the town's boundary and they head across the dock. On either side of the wooden planks, people are busy readying the ships that rest there for launch. At the end of the pier her father stops and nods to the large, gruff man who stands at the helm of the lead vessel. The large man's own daughter stands next to him, four years Izzy's elder and her friend for as long as she can remember. Her hair is short, curly, and brown. The girl on the boat sighs and waves, trying to stretch her mouth into a smile, and this causes Izzy's spirits to lift. There is no apprehension in her friend's expression as she clings to her father's arm, only hope and fear for her safety.

The big man turns to Izzy's father then raises his hand to those standing on the deck. Ropes are cast aside and sails are lifted. The large man—the father of her best friend—offers Izzy's father a salute with two fingers, which her father returns. They begin to move away from the dock, flowing toward the mouth of the inlet. One after another the boats drift into the open water in a sluggish procession of faith.

Izzy stands with her parents and watches the people, her friends and neighbors and family, edge out of the bay. Her mother touches her arm lightly and leads her to the large cabin at the head of the pier. They enter and the girl spots Teacher, surrounded by a group of very nervous-looking men. She tries to grin at him, but the intensity on his face says this is not a time for niceties. Instead he touches his forehead with a single finger and barks at those within the cabin to disperse, which they do, and quickly, leaving behind a wake of dust and the echo of their footfalls. Teacher is the last to leave. His lip quivers as his eyes make contact with hers.

She has never seen Teacher scared. It isn't a pretty sight.

They are finally alone. "Are you ready, Izzy?" her father asks. Izzy gazes at him and nods. He looks tortured and frightened, yet the compassion he gives her is palpable. She knows he loves her more than anything in the world, even mother. All of which makes what he now has to sacrifice all the more disheartening.

"The lookout gave the signal," he says. "There're ships approaching from the other side of the island. Big ones. We have to go. It's time."

She leans forward and kisses him on the lips. When she pulls back there are tears in his eyes. She wants to tell him not to worry, that all will be fine, but she can't. There are no guarantees for them any longer. This she understands completely.

They exit the hut, this tight-knit family of three, and allow the rising sun to bathe them for what might be the last time. The girl closes her eyes and steps ahead of her parents, allowing the brisk wind to make puppet strings of her hair. She doesn't know what the day's conclusion will be, but takes solace in the fact that, no matter the outcome, the nightmares will stop. The empty feeling in her gullet will disappear and the voices in her head will cease their chatter. She will be whole for the first time, or she will be dust.

Either way, this translates to peace.

## CHAPTER 1

### THE DISCOVERY

"What do you mean you're not coming, James?"

"Sorry, Ken," the man on the other end of the phone said. "Cynthia's having contractions."

Ken grunted. "Contractions? She's not due for another month. It's most likely false labor. Don't go."

"Sorry, bloke, but she wants me home, so our plan's taken a bit of a diversion."

"That's just fantastic."

"Again, I apologize, Ken. Listen, I'm at the airport right now. Flight's getting ready to take off. I have to go."

"Fine. Call me when you land. What's that, nine hours from now?"

"I think."

"So I should be done with the inspection by then."

"You're going ahead with it anyway?"

"Of course. _I'm_ not going to miss the opportunity of a lifetime."

"Very well. Be careful. And wish me luck."

"Why?"

"The only flights to London I could get on such short notice land in Gatwick."

Ken snapped his cell phone shut without laughing, wiped sweat from his forehead, and checked his watch. It was nine o'clock in the morning, and it had to be close to a hundred degrees already. Steam rose from the adobe buildings lining the dirt road. There were no adults to be found, but a great many children had gathered, playing stickball and eyeing him with suspicion. He stood out in this impoverished sea of brown flesh with his lily-white skin, sandy blonde hair, and sweat-covered khaki shorts. He puffed out his cheeks and checked his watch again. Raul—the guide hired to bring he and James to the excavation site—was ten minutes late. The way people seemed to lack any respect for punctuality and the plans of others annoyed Ken more than anything, and that included associates who backed out of once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.

An archeologist by trade and cultural anthropologist by passion, Dr. Ken Trudeau had spent much of the past twenty-five years traversing the globe, hoping to further his understanding of cultures long lost to the rest of the civilized world. He scoured most every corner of Europe and Asia, and even spent a few years residing among the aboriginal tribes of New Guinea, living as one with them, drinking up their wealth of primal knowledge and treating them not as subjects, but as brothers.

Yet, despite all he'd seen, all he'd experienced, what lay ahead of him now was the culmination of a dream.

The ancient Mayans were Ken's obsession, and had been for the majority of his forty-seven years. The sudden disappearance of their culture became the study that intrigued him most. With their virtually preternatural understanding of astronomy and the passage of time, which far exceeded the erudition of their contemporaries, it seemed unlikely that they would suddenly up and vanish. What happened? Did famine overtake them? Disease? Did the rivers overrun and flood the land, leaving them no other choice but to scatter and integrate into surrounding cultures? To these queries Ken still found himself in the dark, waiting for someone to shine a beacon and draw him forward.

That beacon was news of the excavation.

In an archetypal flash of irony, an underground fissure had been uncovered when the Honduran government blasted through the rainforest in order to construct a new freeway that would lead to a soon-to-be-completed eastern waterway. After local scientists poked their noses around, it was discovered the chasm led to the interior of an ancient Mayan temple. It was a priceless piece of history, found during man's attempt to wipe the past from the face of the earth in the name of urban development.

The popular theory was that the temple had been swallowed by the earth in the aftermath of some great earthquake, but Ken didn't care about the reasons for its existence. That it existed at all was all that mattered to him. It served as the possible answer to his dreams. He smiled at the thought.

A tan Jeep tore around the corner, almost striking the stickball-playing children and careening into a fruit seller's cart. Mangoes and oranges flew through the air, splattering when they hit the ground. The man behind the wheel of the Jeep wore an expression on his face that reeked of youthful ineptitude. He waved at Ken with one hand and spun the wheel with the other. The automobile screeched to a halt curbside, fifteen feet away.

" _Hola_ , doctor," Raul slurred when the vehicle stopped rocking. Ken approached it. The man's body odor stunk of stale liquor. "Where's the other one?"

"You're late," Ken snapped, "and it's only me today." He threw his bags over the headrest and climbed into the passenger seat. Raul started to ramble, offering an endless succession of excuses, but Ken stopped him with a wave of his hand.

"No bullshit, let's just go," he said. "I'm on a schedule here."

•     •     •

The Jeep lurched as the tires struck the roots and vines cluttering the thin layer of dirt that passed for a jungle road. Sweat covered Ken's body and mosquitoes persisted in hovering about his head despite the speed at which Raul drove. He itched all over but didn't care. The inherent beauty of the rainforest moved any discomfort to the back of his mind. It seemed such a difficult proposition for people to live in conditions such as these. The humidity, the insects, the predators—all these natural dangers forced one to be on top of their game to simply survive. To Ken this fact brimmed with splendor. It echoed the heights humans could reach— _did_ reach—before technology caused universal laziness to wash over the globe.

Two hours after the journey began, they entered a clearing. The vision of the site awoke a tinge of sadness within Ken. The soothing embrace of nature in its purest form was ripped away, revealing the ugly beginnings of humanity's pursuit of uniformity. Rubble from the excavation had been carelessly placed in random piles, creating a rocky maze so thin in some places that stone tore into the Jeep on both sides when they passed through.

They drove across the winding stretch of flattened grass that weaved through the debris and stopped at what looked like a giant mouth cut into the landscape. Ken stepped out, pulled his travel case from the back, and removed from it his harness, a coil of thick cable as wide as his torso, as well as his tool belt. He took a clasp and fastened it to the Jeep's tow hitch. Then he tossed the cord over the edge of the pit, and a second or so later there came a dull thud. He whistled between his teeth. Judging by how long it took to reach the bottom, it had to be at least seventy feet deep. A cold, nervous sweat dribbled down his neck as he fastened the tool belt around his waist, wiggled into the harness, locked its catch around the line, and put on his gloves. He crawled to the lip and peered over.

"Bugger, that's deep," he whispered. Then, his resolve returning, he turned to Raul and said, "Wait for me up here."

While bracing his feet on the rim of the crater, he pulled the cable taut, took a deep breath, and plunged into the void.

A rush of cold, wet air greeted him. His arms ached as he lowered himself down one hand at a time; his leg muscles stiffened from squeezing his feet against the rope. Had James been there he would have used the second support lead, which he should have done anyway, just in case. Now, if he fell, there'd be nothing to break his fall but the ground below. He shivered and tried to force thoughts of his carelessness to the back of his mind, which proved a simple task seeing as his anticipation bubbled over any other invading emotion like foam at the crest of an ocean wave.

Still farther he descended. No light penetrated the opening up above, leaving him in the black. Barbs scraped his bare elbows when he swung too close to the cracked tunnel walls. He considered for a moment how the walls themselves seemed much too round, the plunge much too straight, to be the happenstance creation of wayward dynamite. He thought it possible the channel had been _created_ , and then pushed that thought to the storage space in the deep recesses of his brain. _There will be no conjecture here_ , he thought. _There is only observation. Gather the data. The time for assumptions and analysis comes later._

After what seemed like much too long a time, he felt a breeze. The mugginess surrounding him disappeared—the revealing sign of the end of the channel. He remembered the warning Fuad Cerrano, the director of the Nicaraguan National Institute, had left on his cellular— _Take it slow once you hit the open, you will have the urge to drop quickly; don't do that, the plummet is far, yet the floor still seems to come at you in a hurry, and the first two men we sent down broke bones in their legs_ —and he heeded that advice, placing one hand beneath the other even slower than before.

Amazingly, it took just as long for his toes to brush the ground as it had to enter the chamber from the tunnel. He rolled his feet flat from ball to heel, steadying himself as if he'd spent the last year in zero gravity. He disengaged clamp from cable, took off his gloves, and felt for the line's end. There it was, right at his fingertips, which meant the depth of this chasm was very close to the line's full hundred feet. A whistle escaped his lips, pierced the silence around him, and bounced back two fold.

He grabbed the flashlight from its place in his belt and clicked it on. A blazing cone of yellow light cut a streak through the darkness. Ken looked around in amazement, trying to take in each thing the narrow beam revealed. He stood in the middle of a huge, square room—fifty or so feet from wall to wall, by his best estimation. Hieroglyphs covered those walls for as far up as he could see. Six crudely built wooden tables stood against the wall he faced. He marched slowly toward one of them. A thick layer of white dust—Ken thought it most likely the granular remains of bones—covered the top of its flat slab. He pulled a brush and plastic bag from his belt and stepped forward, intent on sweeping in a sample for later testing.

His foot struck a vagrant stone and he fell, barely getting his hands up in time to stop his face from striking the edge of the table. He glanced up at the opening he'd come through, now a glowing dinner plate in the middle of the black. Again that feeling of foolishness washed over him. He had to be careful.

He paced along the edge of the room, attempting to decipher some of the more interesting symbols. What he saw was both beautiful and terrifying, a tale of harmony and discord, birth and demise, life and death. A common theme Ken hadn't seen before was interspersed between each set of pictograms—a single flame beside a primitively painted skull with no jaw. He tried to wrap his mind around the images. He'd seen pictograms such as these over the years, but they always seemed to flow smoothly, always told a story. The invading skull and flame didn't make sense.

That lack of logic shot a spike of enthusiasm up his spine. If there had been a Black Death here, or a period of religious cleansing like the Crusades, the messages printed on these walls might be the only record. _This_ is _the place_ , his mind blabbered in excitement. _The answer, the missing piece of the puzzle!_

With renewed vigor, Ken worked at a much faster pace. He turned where one wall met another and carried on much as before, eyeing his discovery with the nervous glee of a child at Christmas. His pace quickened again and he passed to the third wall, then the fourth. That was where he stopped.

An arched portal appeared in the middle of that fourth wall, standing only five feet high. Ken bent and flashed his light inside to get a look at what lay beyond.

It was a passageway. The barrier at the end of the tunnel looked to be made of a strange, milky substance, like a sponge. The walls leading down contained nothing as elegant as hieroglyphs—only smooth rock with nary a crack. It took a moment for Ken to realize that nowhere in the temple interior did he see so much as a seam. This place hadn't been built with the customary adobe bricks. To the contrary, it seemed to have been borne from the earth itself.

A soft clacking reached his ears and he aimed the flashlight at the floor of the tunnel, revealing a scurrying sea of insects. The bugs didn't enter the main chamber, though there was nothing to stop them. They simply clawed and scurried all over each other, as if to leave the safety of the passageway would bring an immediate end to their short lives. Ken let out a sigh. He could stand the proposition of squatting through the burrow with those things under his feet, but he hadn't brought a change of pants or socks, which meant he'd most likely be stuck with their gummy innards all over him until he arrived back at the hotel. "Small sacrifice," he whispered, then crouched beneath the stone arch. Insects crunched beneath his soles and he had to fight off the itch to purge his morning meal of poached eggs and blood sausage when they began crawling over his boots and up his leg. He held his breath and went on regardless.

The insect-and-dust-filled corridor ended after only twenty-two steps. The milky substance turned out to be thick tangles of spider webs. Ken brushed them aside, exposing the wall, and stared into the eyes of a monster.

It was a painting of a decaying man, hunched over and grinning with a lipless sneer. The care that must have gone into creating this morbid work of art was astounding. He could clearly see the flesh hanging from its bones. Ken shivered and brushed away a centipede that had made its way to the nape of his neck before hunkering in to take a closer look. No detail had been spared. There were even fibers of exposed muscle that seemed to glisten in the flashlight's beam. _This is amazing_ , he thought. _It's so intricate. It belongs in the National Gallery, not the..._

A final detail caught his eye, stopping him cold.

The monstrosity on the wall held a strap, made to look like leather, in its bony right hand. The strap itself was attached to what at first resembled a pair of sunglasses, until Ken realized what they actually were—the orbital bones from a human skull.

"Well, hello," he whispered.

The brilliant piece of art was a portrait of Yum Cimil, one of the great Mayan gods. He'd seen representations of this particular deity many times over the years, but none as expertly crafted as this. All others were a child's experimentation with finger paints by comparison. It brought into question the Nicaraguan science team's assumption that this was a temple. Mayan temples were, as a rule, a place where _all_ gods were revered, not just one.

Ken squatted and brushed dust off the area below where the painting ended. What came forth from the sandy grit was a seam three feet off the ground. He marked the crease with his finger and followed it to the floor. Bugs scattered. It was a door, a _very_ _small_ door that was sealed shut. He pushed against the block of granite and it gave only slightly. A soft, virtually unnoticeable vibration jangled in his head. _Something isn't right here_ , his subconscious warned. _Must tread lightly._

Ken didn't listen. Exhilaration overrode his common sense.

Snatching the pickaxe from his tool belt, Ken went to work. He hacked away at the stone barricade, the pick head spraying chunks of rock toward him each time he pulled back. A small hole appeared, and then grew larger, then larger still. The obstruction came down with surprising ease, crumbling like dried clay. Sweat poured down his chest, drenching his shirt, pooled in his crotch, and irritated the mosquito bites dotting his flesh, but he paid no mind to the discomfort. All he could think about was _what lay behind that wall._

One final stroke created a gap large enough to squeeze through. He tossed in the flashlight, stuck his head into the hole, wedged his shoulders through—the sweat covering him helped in this regard—and finally let himself drop to the other side like a newborn calf.

His elbows struck ground that was at least a foot lower than it should have been, followed by his knees. He yelped as pain rattled through his bones. A disgusting, vinegary scent assaulted his nostrils for a moment and then disappeared. He fumbled for the flashlight, which shone an arbitrary beam on the pile of discarded rock he'd created. His heart raced and he felt out of breath. The chilling sensation of being watched tiptoed over his shoulder blades. He flashed the light at the hole he created—now above him—just to be sure. There was no one there, no people, no phantoms. Even the insects stayed away, much like they had in the main chamber. He breathed out a sigh of relief and cursed his childish paranoia.

The room felt cold and cramped. The ceiling hung low enough that he had to tilt his head to stand, but at least he didn't have to squat. The space was narrow, only four meters at most, but at least three times as long. With his back to the wall and gazing straight ahead, his flashlight only created the tiniest of circles. He decided he'd get to that part of the chamber later. He sniffed the air—the odor of vinegar must have been his imagination, he assumed—and realized the chamber smelled much like the basement of his mother's house in Banbury; like an ill maintained, moldy fruit cellar. He shrugged it off to the humidity and examined his surroundings.

The first thing he noticed—other than the thousand or so cobwebs—was the shrine. It stood against the wall a few feet to the right of the entryway. He drew close. It was made from some sort of limestone composite whose surface shone with natural, glass-like crystals. It was a meter wide at its rectangular base, coming up in a flattened pyramid shape. A bronze effigy of Kinich-Ahau, the sun god, his face green with oxidation, watched over the room from its perch on the shrine's apex. _Maybe the temple theory is back in play_ , he thought.

A shelf of white bone protruded from the area below the effigy. On top of that was an ancient book. Looking at the side, it seemed as if the pages would disintegrate should anyone try to touch them. The cover had been warped by time but was otherwise preserved, and after blowing the dust off he saw that the tapestry on its surface had remained intact. A gold-leafed outline of a blazing sun emerged and Ken's jaw dropped.

The _Popol-Uuh_. The Mayan holy book. It had to be. Over the years a few bits of parchment thought to be from that very text had made their way across the desk of his Regent Park office. Most were fakes—all but one had turned out to be, in fact—and the only genuine article he'd ever witnessed was a single half-leaf whose pictograms were essentially unreadable. He'd given up hope after that. But now...‌now, it could all be different. There it was—there it _could be_ , he corrected—almost in the palm of his hand, bathed in his flashlight's beam.

Ken didn't want to turn away from the book, but in the end he did just that. There were other things to see, and he had to get a move on. Daylight wouldn't last forever, and he didn't want to risk driving through the jungle at night, _especially_ with that defective kid behind the wheel.

The walls of the chamber were smooth, just as they'd been in the main hall and passageway. The whole place seemed constructed from a mold, if that were possible. Deep grooves marked the surface every so often, as if someone or something had tried to claw its way out. This gave him a sudden jolt of panic. The idea that something could be _in there with him_ caused the dial on his fight or flight instinct to start wavering toward the latter.

He swallowed hard, closed his eyes, and counted to ten. This simple trick always worked in the past, and this time proved to be no different. His heart rate slowed to a steady _thump-thump-thump_. His breathing decelerated and his mind cleared, as though a soft voice was whispering gentle comforts into his ear.

That voice told him: _It's time to come forward_.

His feet shuffled onward over the dirt floor as he progressed toward the milky-black end of the chamber. Gradually his flashlight picked up the vague outline of a shadowy object and he realized why his light hadn't been able to fully penetrate the air. A sheet of what seemed to be silk had been suspended from the ceiling, stretching the width of the chamber, fifteen feet from the small doorway. This struck him as odd—the voice of Cautious Ken urged him to be guarded and follow his logical instincts—but he gently pushed aside the curtain, used a fastener from his belt to hold it aside, and shone his light in nonetheless.

Wedged in the corner sat what appeared to be a primitively assembled pew. The mummified remains of a small girl knelt upon it, hands clasped on a stone pillar as if she'd fallen asleep there and never woken up. Ken couldn't believe his eyes.

He moved alongside the mummy, getting as close as he could without touching it. Judging by the diminutive stature of the corpse and the wisps of black hair—amazingly still in place after all these centuries—that draped over its shoulders to the middle of its back, he guessed the poor soul couldn't have been older than ten to twelve years old at the time of her entombment. A split black veil hung from a headpiece of dried tree bark and dangled at the nape of her neck, framing her face.

And what a face it was. The neck had been craned back as if in an eternal scream. The hollow eye sockets gazed at the ceiling. The skin appeared cracked and brown but amazingly conserved, and the mouth, which still had its teeth, hung open in a ghastly, undead expression of pain, offering one final cry of damnation to the heavens.

That's when it hit him: the poor girl had been buried alive down here.

"Amazing," Ken whispered with a touch of sadness. How it must have felt for her, to be trapped in this sinister place, all alone, left to wither away into the nothingness of time. He felt her loneliness and fear, and for a brief instant hated those he'd spent his life studying.

Very gently, Ken reached for the mummy-girl's clasped hands. Confusion spiraled through his brain like an unstoppable whirlpool as he did this, for the logical part of him knew the rules. _Never, ever place your dirty hands on something as precious and fragile as this._ Yet he couldn't stop himself. His fingers brushed the mummy's flesh. The texture reminded him of sandpaper. Then he grew bolder, rubbing the spot as if trying to ease the dead girl's epoch of isolation with a well deserved, loving caress. _Stop it, man, what are you doing?_ his mind cried, but he couldn't pull himself away. His consciousness grew dim and his vision faded.

A bright light flashed in his eyes and images poured into his head. Fire surrounded him on all sides, creating an impenetrable wall of heat. He saw people standing around the lip of the shallow pit he found himself in, dark-skinned and dressed in animal hides, wearing headdresses of brightly colored feathers. He felt his throat constrict with laughter and watched those around him tremble at the sound. Flames licked his flesh, searing it, but he felt no pain. He pushed his hands forward, breaking free of his bonds, and lunged for the one standing closest to him, the one who chanted. He cleared the rim of the crater in a single leap, leaving the flames behind. His fingers—looking small, delicate, and slightly charred—wrapped around the man's throat. He squeezed.

The scene shifted. Now he floated above the ground, bound and gagged, as those who'd been standing around the hollow now carried him. He struggled mightily, but there were too many of them. He twitched, forcing the veil from his eyes, and gazed at the canopy above, repulsed by the vibrant greens, reds, and violets. Then he felt himself being raised even higher into the air, followed by the sensation of falling. Fast. Then came the violent impact as his body struck the ground. Stars in his vision now, stars that would go on long after the dim point of light above him had been sealed over for good.

Laughter again escaped his lips. He tilted his head back in the darkness and let it come, wave after wave, like a frenzied carnival clown. A mantra repeated in his head, over and over and over:

_The time wasn't right, the time wasn't right, the time wasn't right..._

As if struck by a bolt of lightning he careened backward, whacking his head against the wall. Dizziness ensued. He brought his hands to his head, cradled it, and rocked back and forth, trying to force away both the sensation and the vision through mindless repetition. Eventually his vertigo petered out like the last drops of water from a canteen.

His head still ached, his ears still buzzed, and his intellect couldn't come to grips with what had happened to him, but still he wedged his palms into the ground and forced himself to his knees. He panted and tried the counting trick again, but this time it couldn't stop the rapidity of his heart. A sound emerged, something soft and scratchy, like dry hands rubbing against velvet. He picked the flashlight up off the ground beside him and scanned the chamber, from corpse to shrine to door and back again. Nothing moved. He cocked his head.

The sound grew in volume, and at that point Ken understood it for what it was—a whisper tickling at his inner ear. Then a voice emerged, a sickly humming, a _female_ voice, getting louder with each passing moment. Only this wasn't in his head. This was behind him.

"Shit!" Ken yelped. He spun around, his knees worn and bleeding as they scraped against the rough dirt floor. His flashlight shone on the mummified little girl. The cadaver had developed a liquid sheen in the few seconds since he had last illuminated it, as if someone had snuck in and covered it with grease. He thought briefly that this had been the result of Raul, the driver, playing a practical joke on him, but that couldn't explain the humming that still invaded his brain. Closer he inched, his bloody knees smarting, only to stop when a rather large beetle scampered over the mummy's shoulder.

"Shoo," he said, waving his hand at it. The beetle lifted its pincers, snapped them together, and then took off back from whence it came. What came next was the riot of a thousand tiny clackers. The din sounded like game day at Wembley Stadium. He flashed the light over his shoulder. Perched on the edge of the door cut into the side of the chamber sat the horde of insects from the passageway, too many to count, seemingly on the verge of joining him in a space that now seemed far too congested. They twitched and writhed.

Game day at Wembley, indeed.

A bone-jarring crack snapped his head back around. The mummy-girl no longer gazed at the ceiling. Those empty eye sockets now stared directly at _him_ , and though the mouth still hung open the way it had before, it no longer seemed to be screaming.

The mummy-girl was laughing at him.

Ken backed away. The mummy-girl's head wobbled, furthering the image of laughter, and then split at the jaw. The part of the skull from the disintegrated nose on up toppled off and rolled like a papier-mâché ball until it rested against the wall. The lower jaw protruded from the top of the wrinkled, root-like neck. Insects of every species imaginable erupted from where the head had once been, scampering the length of the mummy-girl's body and falling to the ground in sheets. The body itself, rocked by the sheer violence of the tiny invaders, collapsed. More bugs poured from the newly made orifice when it hit the floor.

"No!" Ken screamed. He backpedaled and then flipped, proceeding to crawl on all fours toward the entrance and the army that waited there, thinking—no, hoping—they would prove as docile as they'd been on his way in. As if sensing his wish, the insects dumped into the chamber in a tidal wave of legs and exoskeletons and scuttled after him. Ken stopped and got up on his knees. They came at him from front and back, left and right. He flailed his limbs as they fell upon him, trying to brush them off. He screamed the whole time.

It was no use. They formed a living coat over his body. He felt them crawl and slither their way into his every crevice, numerous legs treading where none should ever be, tiny mouths gouging soft flesh. Pain engulfed him. He opened his mouth to scream one last time but no sound came out. The wiggling mass flowed into his mouth and worked their way down his windpipe. They were everywhere—in his ears, up his nose, worming into his anus. A ghastly, mucus-filled whistle forced its way out of his throat.

It was the only form of resistance he could muster.

•     •     •

Raul sat back in the driver's seat, bored out of his mind. The stuffy English _maricon_ had been in the pit for almost three hours and it was closing in on five o'clock now. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, hoping the guy would finish soon. Sure he needed the money, but sitting in the same place for so long with the sun beating down on him, mosquitoes droning his ears and no company to speak of save chirping tree frogs worked on his nerves. His buzz had long since worn off and the following headache played tricks on his eyes. He cursed out loud, got out of the Jeep, and walked to the edge of the abyss.

"Hello?" he yelled. The hollow reverberation of his echo answered back, but nothing else. With an annoyed grunt he turned back to the Jeep. Perhaps yanking on his tool and gazing at Miss August's _concha_ again would help ease his pain a bit.

The support cable fastened to the tow hitch suddenly pulled taught and kicked up dirt as it twitched back and forth. Raul, sensing the end of his tedium, grabbed the line. He could barely get it off the ground, which meant—he supposed—that someone was now climbing it.

"Don't worry, mister, I got you!" he yelled. " _Aguante_ , I pull you up!"

Raul sprinted to the Jeep and yanked the lever on the winch. The small motor sputtered and creaked, its spindle rotating in reverse, winding the cable. The lead scraped against the trench's rocky lip, sliding back and forth against the ground, knocking dirt, rubble, and large chunks of stone into the pit. He could hear the larger pieces when they struck the floor below: a hollow _thwack_ that sounded like wet palms smacked together. He worried that one of them might strike his fare, causing who knew what kind of damage. Should that happen, he'd surely be held to blame and lose out on the four thousand Lempira he'd been promised—money he and his family certainly needed. He impatiently tapped on the Jeep's hood and did, for once, something his mother had taught him.

He prayed.

The prayer was answered. Several long minutes after the old winch began its slow and at times nerve-wracking job of coiling the line a hand emerged, grasping blindly for something to hold on to. Raul turned the hoist off with a careless whack of its handle, rushed over, and snatched the flailing arm with both hands. He pulled as hard as he could, and squeezed his eyes shut as his back strained. It felt like the muscles in his shoulder blades were separating from the bone. For a moment the man slipped from his grasp, so he wrapped his hands around the forearm all the more tightly, dug his heels into the rock-strewn earth, and offered a final, desperate heave.

His client emerged from the excavation and slumped in the dirt. The man's whole body seemed to expand and contract with each breath he took. Raul stood over him and asked, "Hey, you, you okay?" followed by, "You got me worried, mister."

Something wasn't right. Raul noticed raised red splotches with white heads covering all of his exposed flesh. There were so many, in fact, that he couldn't see a single unaffected area on the man's skin, save for the hand that had reached out from the dark depths. If he had known better, which he didn't, Raul would have guessed he'd been burned.

Raul bent at the waist and, with a spot of revulsion, touched the back of the man's neck. The inflamed and bulging skin felt hot and soft, like mud on the banks of the Amazon during a summer day. One of the boils popped and leaked yellowish pus. Raul pulled away with a high-pitched yelp.

In response to Raul's surprised vocal acrobatics, the sick man's unblemished hand shot out and snatched him by the wrist. The grip was inhumanly tight, containing enough pressure to splinter the bones beneath his thin membrane of flesh, and it forced Raul to his knees.

The thing that only somewhat resembled the English doctor he'd brought to this godforsaken place got to its feet and gazed down at him. Its mouth hung slack-jawed, black lips peeled back in a sneer. The teeth inside the mouth looked like stone daggers. Loose flesh drooped off its face, creating a pair of jowls that flopped this way and that with each tilt of the head. Veins bulged, green and red, over the exposed tissue inside its cheek.

Raul screamed. As if to answer this, the creature drew Raul's arm to its mouth and clamped down on his bicep. It shook its neck like a rabid dog, pulled back, and ripped free a dripping hunk of skin and muscle. Again Raul screamed—this time loud enough to disturb the birds, which fluttered from the treetops—and then, in a feat of strength only adrenaline could provide, he struck the monstrosity on the side of the head with his free hand, forcing it to let go. Raul spun on his heels and took off into the jungle.

He ran until the sun began dipping down behind the mountains, until his feet couldn't carry him, until his body and mind, dizzy from lack of hydration and loss of blood, stumbled, tumbled, and froze in place. He tried to tell himself it was all a dream, that things such as these don't happen in the _real world_. This denial might have worked, too, if not for the gaping wound that still pumped blood onto the leafy rainforest floor. That wound, that _pain_ , couldn't have been more real.

Cold and feverish, his surroundings a haze to his blurred vision, Raul closed his eyes. For the second time that day he prayed, for forgiveness, for mercy, for life. His lips moved, sticky with dried saliva, but his words were hoarse, inaudible. He gathered enough strength to inch his way against a tree, onto which he leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and thought of home.

He didn't see the creature that had once been Ken Trudeau, of Oxford and the MNH, creep out of the foliage before him. He offered no hint that he heard the snapping of branches beneath its booted feet. By the time it was upon him, tearing into his neck with those dagger-teeth, Raul was far away.

His end came quickly. By all accounts, Raul Javier Desoto was one of the lucky ones.

## CHAPTER 2

### THE RECREANT

Most of Dover's residents slept. If they had been awake they would have seen the newly fallen leaves, illuminated by the moon, casting washes of dull yellows, browns, and reds across the empty streets, sidewalks, and front lawns of the town. The temperature, a brisk twenty-eight degrees, was unusual for the last day of September, even in New Hampshire. The townsfolk—those who cared enough to speculate on the subject—thought this rapid decline of summer to be the reason the trees began shedding their leaves so early, and while that assumption filled them with dread, the knowledge that winter's ominous, freezing, white presence lingered just around the corner was even worse. It made their bodies shiver, even behind the safety of their heated four walls. Because of this, many cursed the coward autumn, thinking it much too eager to give in.

Not the entire town was asleep—at least, not in the purest sense of the word. The Pit, one of Dover's many watering holes, was half-full, as would be most others around town. It was closing in on midnight on a Tuesday evening, and those inside thought mindlessly—because that was their preferred state— _Wednesday morning be damned_.

Dim light infused the place with all the charm of a medieval dungeon. Lynyrd Skynyrd blasted from the decayed speakers of an ancient jukebox. Sawdust covered the floor. Three pool tables stood in the open area to the rear of the lounge area, of which only one was in use. Joshua Benoit stood facing away from that table, holding a cue stick in one hand and a pint of beer in the other, watching everything that went on around him like a bored referee. Three men circled a thirty-something female, whose expression seemed to say ' _here we go again'_ and ' _oh, isn't this exciting'_ at the same time. The woman appeared not to notice (or perhaps ignored) the fact these men bore down on her like a pack of wild dogs. The two older ladies sitting across from the pack were diving into their fourth round of Merlot, staring straight ahead and ignoring each other as if the brown stain on the wall behind them would make for better company.

Despite the dreariness of these events, they were, to Joshua, the more interesting sights to be seen, even though the ragged collection of mullets, flattops, tattoos, leather, and dirty tank tops created an atmosphere that those not in the know would find either disheartening or threatening.

Joshua was in the know. He knew everyone in there quite well, as a matter of fact, though he didn't want to. Their names rolled off his tongue like sewage: Kenny, Walter, Esther, Dot, Larry, Quentin, and Mary, among others. He took the fact that he was on a first-name basis with these people as another sign that his life had gone nowhere.

He was twenty-five and had lived in Dover his whole life. He felt stuck, fearful of becoming one of the townies he and his friends used to poke fun at in his younger days. _There's no one to blame but yourself_ , someone important had told him once. No statement ever rang truer.

His life flashed before him. He'd never been an eager student and his high school grades reflected as much. However, with an intelligent (if not sensible) head on his shoulders, he fudged his way through. He also tested well, which allowed him a great many opportunities that others in this dumpy little town didn't have. He was accepted at all the universities he applied to but one—Dartmouth, the place he dreamed of attending and by far the toughest school he applied to—and had parents willing to pay his way. He chose Syracuse University in upstate New York, but cowardice crept up on him the summer before he was set to leave, making him fearful of the responsibilities which would be thrust upon him if he were to move so far away from home. As a result of that fear, he chose to matriculate to the University of New Hampshire, only a few short miles away in the town of Durham, and partied his education away. By the end of his second semester he'd flunked out.

_Townie to the core_ , his subconscious had chided ever since.

Josh suffered from the same misconception that infected many bright boys of that age: the idea that their talents would carry them to greatness without having to exert any time or energy. He never worked too hard, never loved too long, and often tumbled into deep depressions when events inevitably didn't fall his way. His relationship history followed this same pattern. Two months represented a lengthy attachment for him, the point when he became either uninterested or irritated by how much of his free time was spent kneading the emotions and desires of someone else rather than his own.

When this consideration flitted into his head he dropped his shoulders, almost spilling his beer in the process. A twisting ache of sadness sluiced over him as one name, the same _important person_ who told him those fateful words that now filled his remaining wits with a litany of guilt and regret, came to mind, and he said the name out loud, as he was apt to do whenever he felt the anchor of compunction tie him down.

"Marcy."

"Hey, dickhead, it's your shot!" a voice shouted from behind him, breaking his doldrums. He turned to see Colin, his oldest friend and polar opposite, standing there, stick in hand, grinning.

Josh and Colin had known each other since grammar school, when Colin would visit his house every day after class. In those days they would share comic books and action figures. Josh loved reading _X-Men_ and playing with G.I. Joes while Colin preferred _The Flash_ and Transformers. This was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to their differences. Short and slender whereas Josh had grown tall and a bit on the heavy side, Colin wore an expression of constant joy, as if a silent voice whispered jokes into his brain every minute of every day. Josh envied him for that, for he felt he didn't possess his friend's enjoyment—his _passion_ —for everyday life.

Josh turned. "Hold on, I'm coming," he said as he slunk to the table and bent to take his shot. He breathed in deep, his eyes narrowing in concentration. His arm swung the butt of the stick back. All went well until he urged the cue forward. Something whacked into his forearm, knocking him off-center. The white ball flew over the table and plummeted to the sawdust-colored carpet like a dove made of stone. The tip of his stick forged a streak of blue across the filthy, matted felt.

"You missed," another voice said, followed by a throaty, phlegm-filled laugh.

"You're an ass, Bobby," said Josh. He turned and frowned at his other old friend. He wanted to be mad, but the sight of Bobby's ungainly crew cut, lanky posture, and tattered flannel disarmed him. Bobby might have been a giant of a man with a large, bombastic personality, but anyone who looked into those pale blue eyes could see that the rough outer shell hid a nature gentle enough to cry during a viewing of _A River Runs Through It_. So instead of frowning, Josh smiled.

"My turn," said Colin with a grin. He hopped up to the table and, in a few short strokes, finished the game. That was another big difference between the two of them. Pool was a struggle to Josh. It seemed that the more he focused, the more apt he was to fuck up. _Not that it really matters; it's only a game_ , he thought with a shrug, and finished the second half of his beer in two massive gulps.

"Well, time for another," he said.

His friends nodded and began another game without him.

With legs unsteady, he sauntered to the bar and placed his glass on the counter. The bartender, a woman in her forties with fiery red hair, leaned across the bar opposite him, elbows propped on the counter with her chin in her hands. She was speaking with a man he knew only as Doc. Her tight jeans clung to her hips and butt, and Josh quickly turned his eyes away, not wanting to linger on her for long. He tapped gently on the counter and started whistling.

"I'll be right back," he heard the bartender say.

She stepped up to him—he could see her hips swaying in his peripheral—and spoke. Her voice was low and a bit raspy. It was seductive.

"You want another, sweetie?" she asked.

"Yeah," he answered.

"Same as usual?"

"Uh-huh."

He kept his eyes away from her, even as she took his glass, placed it in the wash station, replaced it with another, and filled it at the spigot. When she handed him the newly filled glass, he said thanks—kindly, but still without so much as a glance in her direction—and headed back to his small gathering of friends.

"Idiot," he whispered under his breath.

An old drunk named Carl, sitting alone at a table, stopped him as he passed by. "Would you look at that, kid," he said, pointing at the wide-screen television positioned against the back wall, where images of the Red Sox, finishing off their season at home in below-freezing temperatures, were re-broadcasted as big as life.

"Look at what?"

The drunk slapped the tabletop without taking his eyes off the screen. "Damn bum," he said. "Can't hit a fucking curveball to save his life. Whole team's like that now. They better get their shit together for the playoffs."

Josh shrugged. "Couldn't care less, really."

"Why's that?" the old man asked, his eyebrows rising.

"Well," said Josh, the jittery feeling of mischief rising in his gut matching the sarcastic smile on his face, "For one, they've already won a couple of World Series. And secondly, I'm a Yankees fan."

Old Carl swiped Josh's hand off the table. "Get outta here, you traitor," he snarled.

Josh spun on his heels and strutted away.

"Any time, partner. Any time."

Josh and Colin said their goodbyes to Bobby at two o'clock, when the lights came on and the bouncer proclaimed, "Everybody out!" The ride home was depressing. Josh sat and stewed in his juices while Colin quietly hummed, probably in his godforsaken "happy place". Josh assumed he was dreaming about either the girl who'd given him her phone number an hour ago or whatever exciting happenings he was sure to experience the next morning in the realm of telephone marketing. _How can you love life so much?_ he thought with a hint of resentment. Josh sure didn't.

_The_ _Counting Crows_ —Colin's favorite band—wailed from the CD player. The singer crooned about life's uncertainty and his quest for self discovery. Josh felt close to tears as questions rattled off in his mind. Where was his sorry excuse of an existence going? Would he ever be happy? Could this be his destiny, to exist somewhere between completely pathetic and a view of moderate success he would have scoffed at not even a decade ago? He sniffed in a wad of snot and swallowed it. _Questions for another day. I can't deal right now._

The car pulled into the driveway of the duplex he and Colin shared. They walked to the door in silence and went their separate ways. Colin patted him on the back when they separated. Josh said nothing.

He descended the steps to his basement bedroom and collapsed on his mattress, which rested on the thinly carpeted plywood floor instead of a bed frame. Feeling a little drunk and a lot dejected, he closed his eyes and curled into a ball, trying not to think of his life any longer, and prayed for sleep.

•     •     •

A crescent moon bathed the road in faint blue light. There was no breeze and the leaves scattered on the pavement sat idle, waiting to be crunched under meandering feet. The trees lining the road became midnight monsters, changing shape, growing larger and more menacing in the dark places beyond the guardrails. Josh walked onward, eyes set straight ahead as to not be drawn into the phantoms' roadside traps. A watery feeling of uncertainty struck him, and he tried to tell his subconscious that this was only a nightmare, but the sound of his sneakers scraping against the blacktop and the way his breath formed perfect clouds of mist in the air before him said this was something much more than that.

Something scarier.

The road curved, and there he found a large, unremarkable SUV—things Colin laughingly dubbed _Shitty Undressed Vulvas_ , though the moniker made absolutely no sense—sitting idle by the side of the road. The interior light clicked on, and from a distance he swore he could see two people locked in a struggle. His heart rate picked up and he began to run. His sneakers sank into the road. The strain of pulling them out while he ran caused his leg muscles to burn.

By the time he reached the vehicle he was out of breath. He gathered himself, bending at the waist and grabbing the ends of his flannel shirt for support, until he felt well enough to glance through the driver's side window. The overhead light shone, allowing him to see the charred interior. The upholstery fluttered like black flakes of confetti. He moved toward the rear. There he found a slender girl, dressed in a dirty white negligee, occupying the back seat. She shook violently, like an epileptic. The short brown hair falling just above her shoulders shielded her face from him. She coddled something in her arms that quaked along with her. Josh slammed his fist against the window, bracing for the likelihood of it shattering, but it didn't. He tried to scream but nothing came out.

The girl stopped her convulsions and turned her head. She stared at him with terrified eyes, and the moment Josh saw those eyes he felt the undeniable urge to wretch. Again those five letters escaped his lips in a hoarse whisper.

"Marcy."

_It can't be_ , he thought. She looked older than he remembered. _Of course she would, you dolt_ , Sane Josh nagged, _you haven't seen her in seven years._ He braced his palms against the windshield and forced himself to look on. There was something else wrong here. Bruises covered her face. One eyelid was puffy, almost closed. Blood trickled from her nose.

Josh yelled to her, the full of his voice finally escaping his throat's prison. For a second time he pounded his fists into the glass, this time drawing blood. She acted as if she didn't notice his struggle. Instead, she held thing cradled in her arms out to him. Josh's attack on the window ceased and he stared at it, wide-eyed.

It was a baby girl dressed in pink. It lay splayed out and motionless in a filthy receiving blanket dotted with streaks of blood. Its skin had taken on a bluish hue, with swollen lips and blackened craters for eyes. Toothless gums colored green were exposed through a gaping hole in its cheek. The need to wretch overtook him again.

He wrapped his fingers around the door handle and yanked as hard as he could. It wouldn't budge. The woman who looked too much like his post-high-school sweetheart slapped her hands on the window. Her lips mimicked words— _Please help our baby, please help our baby!—_ with soundless fury.

"I'm trying!" Josh pleaded. He continued to tug on the handle and then resumed pelting the window with his fists for good measure. Then the Marcy look-alike pitched her head back, her body once more thrown into spasms. Josh was frozen stiff. Her face bulged and rippled, and agonized screams suddenly pierced his skull through the vacuum of sound. The skin on her throat peeled back and a bony spike poked through. Bloody spit bubbled on her lips, but her eyes never left his. She pleaded for help again, even as the spike kept growing, moving farther outward. He could see it was segmented, insect-like. Then another, larger obstruction burst from her chest, bathing the interior of the SUV in red. The baby tumbled from her lap and fell limp into the unseen area beneath the seat. Blood seeped through the seams in the doorframe.

Josh spun around and ran, pushing his legs as fast as they could go. He heard the sound of glass shattering behind him, followed by the dull _thump_ of something heavy landing on the automobile's aluminum hood, and thrust on even faster, heading for the corner from which he'd come. When he rounded the bend, the road inexplicably ended. He tripped over the embankment and tumbled through a narrow line of demonic trees. Their branches reached out for him and rocks gouged his elbows. His head struck a stump.

Finally, he came to rest in a thick patch of ferns. He waited for the world to stop spinning—which it did, eventually—and lifted his head. Despite the darkness, he could make out the silhouette of a small figure in profile, standing with one leg propped up on a tree and arms crossed like a miniature James Dean. It lowered its leg and turned, creeping gradually toward him. A thin beam of light caught it for the briefest of moments and Josh stopped breathing. Huge, skeletal mandibles snapped open and shut. A long, serpentine tongue lolled to one side. The beast leapt into the air. Josh screamed.

Josh awoke with a start and began crying. His body ached all over, a sensation he would have, if he'd been in a better state of mind, attributed to the coming hangover, but he was in no condition to think logically. Instead he shivered and pulled his knees to his chest, chanting, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," until sleep—a relatively peaceful one this time—claimed him.

•     •     •

Josh ended up saying ' _Wednesday morning be damned'_ for real the following day. He was in need of some healing, so he called into work at seven-thirty, long after his alarm had gone off, and crawled back into bed.

He awoke for good a little past noon and tooled around the house for a few hours, eating a lunch of dry Cheerios and listening to music. When the nightmare and thoughts of Marcy wouldn't leave his mind, he threw on his coat and took a walk in the unusually frigid late-afternoon air, heading for the place where _real_ recuperation would take place.

Josh's parents lived in a nice little colonial two streets over from him and Colin. The white siding reflected sunlight a little too well and the well-manicured lawn was the only one in the surrounding neighborhood devoid of fallen leaves. Josh marched up the driveway, the lingering effects of the previous evening's events started to fade. The expectation of a hearty meal began to break him of his mood. _No ramen noodles for Josh Benoit tonight._ Let the healing begin.

"Hey, Dad," he said, waving at his father, who stood with hose in hand, for some reason watering the side garden in the almost-freezing temperatures. Donald Benoit waved back and passed his son a goofy grin, his teeth glimmering beneath his thick mustache. Josh chuckled. At fifty years old, Don lived life with the fervor of someone half his age. In that way he was like Colin, only he stood six feet tall with a full beard that accentuated his active and restless brown eyes. He lived in a constant state of motion. "Stagnation is the next step before death," Don was fond of saying. "Just look at sharks."

Josh entered the house to find his mother in the kitchen, peeling carrots over the garbage disposal. She glanced up from her task and smiled, not appearing the least bit surprised he was there.

"How _are_ you, honey?" she asked.

"Not too bad, Mom. You?"

"All right." She lifted her hands—half-stripped carrot in one, peeler in the other—and offered them out to him. "Just cooking."

"I can see that," he replied, feeling his heart lift. He so loved his mother. Gail Benoit had spent her whole life doting over her only son, and it was that unquestioned acceptance he longed for on so many of his lonely nights.

The rapid patter of feet came from behind him and he whirled around, knowing what to expect—Sophia, his twelve-year-old sister, sprinting toward him with arms held out wide. She jumped into his arms and he held her there for a moment, fighting against her weight. She wasn't a kid anymore.

"Hey, Rascal!" he exclaimed. He gave her a big hug, one that she returned in kind. She buried her face in his chest and laughed. Josh's heart picked up another few beats.

Sophia had an energetic personality that bordered on exuberant and was the only person in his life who never considered him a failure. It had been that way since the day of her birth, when Josh began the habit of fawning over his happy-accident sister the way his mother had fawned over him. He adored her and they became best buddies, growing unusually close for siblings separated by that many years. Josh was her Daddy-Bro, she his Rascal, and no one in the world came close, not even their parents.

They let go of each other and stood at arm's length. Josh tousled her hair. "So, how's school?" he asked.

"It's alright," she replied with a hint of a frown. "The guys in gym keep bugging me. They kept saying I was a hottie and asking if I wanted to _hook up_ with them. All during swimming. I keep telling the teachers it's wrong to make us wear bathing suits in school. It's like walking around in your underwear. I hate that place."

Josh squeezed her arm. "Well, you _are_ a pretty girl, Rascal. You're just gonna have to get used to it or tell them to back off." He passed her a devilish smirk. "Or say you'll sic big brother on them. That might rattle their cages."

"You'd do that for me?"

"'Course I would. You're always safe with me, sis."

She gave him another hug and said, "I know I am."

Dinner was tremendous, as usual. Josh devoured his food, laughing at the good-natured yet concerned expressions his mother shot him while he feasted on his roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, and salad. It tasted delicious, and it wasn't until his third helping of meat that his stomach barked at him.

After supper, Josh and Sophia cleared the table while Gail washed the dishes and Don, ever the one to savor his food, sat and finished his meal with tiny bites, like a connoisseur of fine wine taking the slightest sips of some expensive Cabernet. It amazed Josh how every time he came over for dinner they fell back into old routines. How long had it been since he had left home? Five years? Six? This, along with the thought that came next, made him frown. _You've never_ really _been on your own, have you, big boy?_

When one tradition ended, the next began. Cleaning chores finished, the four of them made their way into the living room. His father sat in his recliner, using a handkerchief to dramatically wipe the corners of his mouth while his mom took her usual spot on the neighboring couch. Josh sat on the love seat opposite them with his sister on the floor between his knees. With everyone in their proper positions—the same way they'd sat after dinner since Sophia was old enough to be out of the high chair—the post-dinner conversations began.

"So, Josh, any word about the UCLA application?" asked Don.

Panic set in. "They'll probably get back to me in a couple weeks," he said. It was a complete and utter lie, but one he hoped his parents believed. If he could, he would have slapped his own face. _Gotta get on that_ , he thought. _Don't want to let them down again._

Sophia looked up at him, a frown on her face. "You moving away?" she asked.

"Of course not," said Josh as he caressed her shoulder.

"I hope you don't."

"Don't say that, Sophia," Gail said as she looked down on her daughter with obvious disappointment. "You don't mean it."

"Yes, I do."

The discussion of Josh's furthered education reached a fever pitch after that, until he successfully swayed the conversation by using the secret weapon, the one thing that piqued his father's interest even more than his own family's business: current events.

"So," Josh said, "what's up with health care?"

Don took off, as he was wont to do. They talked about everything from the situation in the Middle East, whether it had reached time to bring the troops home for good this time, to the polarization of the political system. This was the biggie, the _grand mal_ of Donald Benoit's emotional epicenter. He ranted on and on about how the States had become a nation divided, with left and right sitting in opposite corners of the ring, waiting for the bell to chime so they could come out swinging, using barbed words disguised as philosophical ideals for weapons.

"Little do those bastards know," said Don.

Gail interjected, "Watch your language, Donald."

To which Don replied, "Sorry, darling, but anyway, little do those _toadies_ know, but they're working under the same trainers."

Josh smiled as his father seethed. It gave him a sense of completion to talk with intelligent people, individuals who would offer their opinions and still listen with interest to his, no matter how far-out and radical they might seem. It was family at its greatest...‌or at least at its most encouraging.

"Did anyone hear about what's happening in Mexico?" asked his father, his breath regained after a particularly heated tirade blasting the oil industry and their squashing of the electric car.

"A little bit," Josh said, "but my cable got shut off last week, so I've been kinda in the dark lately."

"Well, it looks like they're having a revolution down there," said Don, looking excited to be spreading word of the unknown to a rapt audience. "It's been all over CNN the last few days. It's some pretty disturbing stuff."

"What happened? Drug wars?"

"Not sure, but I don't think so. In fact, saying 'what's happening in Mexico' doesn't really give the situation justice. The news said there were outbreaks of fighting that started down near the South American border, and then it spread up and down the coast, into Mexico and Brazil. Guess we'd be sending troops in if they weren't already tied up _over there._ " He paused. "I don't know. Maybe it _is_ a civil war. It's possible. From the looks of it, it's pretty well organized."

"Jihadists?" Sophia asked.

Don squinted at his daughter and looked like he was making every effort to smile. "I really don't know, honey." He glanced back at Josh. "I really don't know _anything._ It's all been very hush-hush. Little details started coming out a week and a half ago, mixed in between long-winded history lessons on Central American politics. It was weird. Big stories with little exposition, if you know what I mean. I can't decide if it means anything or not."

"Should _we_ be worried?" Gail asked.

Don cleared his throat. "Maybe. Yesterday they were saying conflict had broken out along the Texas-Mexico border. Then nothing."

"What do you mean nothing?" Josh queried.

"Just that. Nothing. When I turned on the television this afternoon they were talking about some bill that will potentially reverse Roe v. Wade. Not a word about Mexico, not a word about violence leaking onto our soil. It's like the whole thing never happened."

"Maybe it's all over," said Sophia.

"Perhaps," answered Don, "but somehow I doubt it."

Family time finished up soon after that. Josh gave hugs all around, the strongest one for Sophia, before starting for home on foot. Disquieting ideas of disturbing events on the southern border melted away with each step. Those events were so far away. There was no way anything bad could reach as far north as New England, not with two-thousand-plus miles of prime U.S. real estate to cross. It was somebody else's problem, something for the military to take care of. That was their job, after all.

Pleasant memories of time recently passed drifted through his mind during the rest of his short journey home, and by the time he reached the front door he felt totally at peace. He walked in to find Colin sitting at the kitchen table, car keys dangling on his fingers.

"Where you been?" he asked.

"Went to see the folks."

"They doing okay?"

"No. They're all sick. In the head."

"Ha-ha. You ready to go, clever guy?"

"Whenever you are."

The nightly trek to The Pit followed: two friends ready for another evening of drunkenness in their not-so-futile pursuit of eliminating coherent thought. "Home again, home again, jiggidy-jig," Josh sang as he entered the dim space beyond the door. Someone bumped into him as he passed through the entryway, a man who looked much too pale. The guy glowered back at him with eyes that said _this dude isn't to be fucked with._

"Yo, no harm, no foul," said Josh, backtracking.

The man flipped him the bird and then stormed out the door, heading for the oil rig parked outside, coughing the whole time, without offering a rebuttal. "Asshole," Josh said, loudly, when the man was safely out of range.

"That's right," said Colin with a laugh. "No need for fighting when there's _beer_ to be had!"

They laughed, ordered pints at the bar, and drank the night away.

## CHAPTER 3

### THE FALLEN WOMAN

Kyra Holcomb fumbled with her keys while a gust of bitterly cold wind caused goose pimples to rise on the nape of her neck. The rain and sleet from earlier in the evening had long ceased, but her hands were still numb from scraping frost from her windshield. She moaned and her teeth chattered, causing a verbal staccato she might have found funny if not for her physical discomfort.

She wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed and pass out after yet one more night of drunken townsfolk coming at her with hollered demands and inappropriate advances. This didn't even take into account the nine hours on her feet running back and forth. _Bartending sucks_ , she thought. _I should've become a secretary._

Despite the promise of home, she was offered no comforts, not even the cold kind. She climbed into her car in The Pit's deserted parking lot and turned the key, listening to the soft rattle as the old engine idled. It would take a bit for the car to warm up. At least her belly felt toasty.

"Thank God for tequila," she whispered.

All the places she'd rather be performed their annual roll call in her mind as she sat there: in Massachusetts, living with her sister; Galveston, Texas, where her old high-school friend Heidi had moved so long ago; northern Saskatchewan, a place where not a soul would know her. Anywhere would be better than good-ole Dover, New Hampshire.

"This town sucks," she muttered. It depressed and annoyed her as much now as it had during her childhood days in the seventies, when she watched her father slowly unravel after the textile mill closed. Through her adulthood she saw the locals seek redemption through liquor, weed, pills, and happy powder, just as he had. Kyra, herself, had joined the party more than once, spending many a night drowning her sorry apology of an existence and pretending to be happy, just like her father, just like the rest of them. She'd been stuck in the same bad marriage for going on twenty-three years and felt trapped: too young to hang 'em up, too old to start over, too reliant on the familiar to change a thing.

When a rush of hot air burst through the dashboard vent she threw the car into drive and pulled out of the lot. She took the long way home as usual, uttering the same old lies about how lovely the street looked at four in the morning—empty, pitch-black, and quiet, with most sane folks tucked away in their beds, awaiting the alarm clock's bleating. Deep down she knew this was furthest from the truth. There were many reasons for lingering by her lonesome in an empty saloon for three hours after she'd closed it down, and the ability to cruise the back roads in silence wasn't one of them.

After fifteen minutes of a slow crawl she arrived home. On instinct she tied her red hair back in a ponytail, got out of the car, and glanced at the upstairs windows. No lights on, not a sound to be heard but trees ruffling in the breeze. She closed the door carefully, gently nudging it with her hip until it clicked shut. After that she walked up the driveway, measuring each step: twenty-four to the edge of the grass, thirteen around the walkway, and five up the steps to the front entrance. She opened the flimsy screen door— _I wish he'd get off his ass and install the winter glass_ —and winced when the rusty hinges squealed.

Darkness greeted her inside and the creepy sensation of being watched tiptoed up her spine. _Silly girl. Always jumping at shadows._ She made her way down the hall, using the wall to guide her like a blind person while old floorboards creaked beneath her feet. At the end of the hall she reached her hand around and flicked on the kitchen light. Her eyes adjusted to the new brightness. There was no one there—not leaning against the counter, not sitting at the dining table, not hanging by a noose from the ceiling fan. Kyra sighed. _Wishful thinking._

She set her purse on the counter and her keys in the jar next to the sink with care, and opened the fridge. The previous night's dinner—Chinese takeout—sat in its small cardboard container on the top shelf. She opened the top and pulled out the last piece of sweet-and-sour pork. It wasn't much, but she had to eat _something_. The liquor churning in her stomach demanded as much.

The sound of someone clearing their throat shattered the silence and Kyra froze. She turned around and there he stood, in the murky passageway where the kitchen and living room met. His eyes glimmered like a cat's.

"Shit, Justin!" she exclaimed. "You _scared_ me!"

Justin Holcomb entered the light. He was quite a large man, standing six-foot-two with forearms the size of her thighs and a barrel chest. The extra pounds he'd packed on over the last ten years, showing in the paunch around his belly and the spare padding in his ass, seemed to heighten his stature. Instead of appearing clownish, which was how she usually saw him, now he looked careless.

If the past were prologue, with Justin Holcomb, _careless_ meant _dangerous_.

"Where have you been?" he said in a shrill yelp that bordered on comical, and then coughed violently. Kyra stepped back and stared at him as he hacked away. Huge black raccoon rings surrounded his eye sockets. His flesh had taken on a silvery sheen, slick with sweat. His voice oozed of exhaustion and anger.

"I was working," said Kyra with a roll of her eyes. She cast aside his appearance and breezed past him into the dark living room. She threw her voice over her shoulder. "Where I _always_ am on weeknights."

Justin followed at her heels. "It's going on five the fuck o'clock in the morning," he growled. "The bar closes at two."

She turned on the table lamp. The ashtray beside Justin's easy chair overflowed with cigarette butts and three tattered old copies of _Guns and Ammo_ were stacked haphazardly on the table. It looked like he'd been sitting there, alone and in the dark, for hours.

"What's your point?" she asked. She couldn't understand where all this anger was coming from.

"Your shift ends at two," he repeated.

"And?"

"Where...‌the fuck...‌have you been?"

She batted her eyes at him, the one trick she could always count on to shift his bad moods, but it didn't work. So she sighed and said, "Like I said, at work. A couple kids got into a fight, left the place a huge mess. I spent the last few hours picking glass up off the floor and mopping up stale beer. In other words, I'm tired now. I want to go to bed." It wasn't a complete lie—she __ had been at work, after all—but there'd been no fights that night. Escaping into a Harper Allen romance novel was the _real_ reason she was so late. She didn't know why she wouldn't just tell him that, but chalked it up to old habits dying hard _._

Justin took a menacing step toward her. "What a load of shit!" he screamed. "You were with _him_ again, weren't you? I _know_ you were! Don't fucking lie to me!"

"I wasn't with anyone, dear," replied Kyra while shaking her head as if at a silly puppy. "I was at work. Call Barb if you don't believe me. Sorry, but it's true."

His tone dropped to a low rumble. "You're a lying whore. Duke told me he saw you getting all friendly with that little yuppie fuck from the bank the other night. What, you think I don't know these things? You think I'm fucking stupid? I got eyes all over this town, babe."

Kyra ignored his macho posturing and focused on the accusation. She knew exactly who he meant: Jack Trombley, a sweet guy with a wife and two kids back home who'd become a regular as of late. Jack had taken to sitting in a secluded corner, waiting for her rounds to finish so he could have a few moments to air his feelings. They talked about their respective problems often, but had never once been intimate. Did he find her attractive? Maybe. Probably. But he never said anything about it or made even a token attempt at flirting. The thought had never crossed her mind, in fact, until Justin came out with his accusation. She found it pretty funny, though not so much in a ha-ha kind of way, that Justin would suspect _anything_ between the two of them. She'd cheated on him many times over the years, occasionally being daring and drunk enough to flaunt it in front of him, and yet her husband, on those occasions, either didn't notice or didn't care. But take a case like this, where some random guy wanted nothing but her company, time, and respect, and he blew a gasket.

"Listen, _darling_ ," she said, "I haven't been with anyone. Let's leave it at that."

"Bitch, don't you dare 'darling' me."

"Don't open your mouth to me like that," she snapped. "Show me some goddamn respect, you lousy fuck. The guy Duke saw me with is a friend, that's it. We talk...‌like me and a hundred other motherfuckers do on a nightly basis. And shit, besides, Jack wasn't even at the bar tonight. Like I said, there was a fi—"

Her chest exploded in a burst of liquid fire as Justin's fist struck her breastplate, robbing her of both words and breath. Kyra's head snapped forward with the force of the blow. She collapsed to one knee and gasped for air. Shock stripped her of coherent thought.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he shouted. "SHUT YOUR DIRTY, ASS-FUCKING CRACK! YOU DON'T DISRESPECT ME, AND YOU DON'T FUCK ANYBODY ELSE!" He shoved her over and kicked her in the rear. Kyra tried to scurry away on her hands and knees, fingernails digging deep into the shag carpet, but he grabbed her by the back of her pants and dragged her into the middle of the room, where he began thumping her with a combination of fists and feet. She lashed out against him out of pure instinct, eyes closed, scratching at his arms and face, but he wouldn't stop. Blow after blow landed on her chest, her stomach, her sides, and at least once on her cheek. Her world became a dizzying kaleidoscope of physical torment.

The instinctive part of her brain said, _kick him in the balls_ , and that's just what she tried, bringing her leg up blindly with as much force as she could gather. His sensitive little sack mashed against her shin and a wounded yelp followed. Droplets of spit landed on her cheek, their impact waking her from her shocked state. Her eyes snapped open and she kicked him again, this time sending him down onto his side. She thrust with her opposite leg and slid from under him, flipped over, and got first to her knees, then to her feet, and darted for the kitchen.

One of her chunky boot heels snapped off when she passed from carpet to linoleum, but that didn't stop her. She made a beeline for the stove, beside which sat the chopping block and knife caddy. Her hand grasped the handle of the butcher knife and she pulled it free, wheeling around with it held in front of her. The tendons in her neck pulled taut. Her whole body shook.

Justin stumbled through the entryway, holding his nutsack and moaning. He looked up at her and coughed. Amazingly enough, the rage had drained from his face.

"You...‌kicked me..." he said.

"Damn straight," she replied. The side of her jaw stung. It felt like her tongue had been wrapped in bandages. With her free hand she took the telephone receiver off its cradle. Justin began to come forward.

"Get any closer and I stick you in the gut with this," she said, flashing the knife at him.

"What're you doing?" he asked in a pathetically pleading voice.

She pressed the _Talk_ button and dialed 9-1-1. "Calling the cops."

Justin straightened up, cracked his neck, coughed again, and then asked, amazingly, "Why?"

Kyra was so flabbergasted that she almost dropped the phone. "Why? What? Are you kidding me?"

Without another word, Justin started forward again. She shielded herself from him, but he gave her a wide berth and limped out of the room. She heard his thumping footfalls as he went down the hall, the creak of the front door when he opened it, and the battalion-like roar of his Chevy engine when he pulled out of the driveway and sped off.

"You don't _ever_ fucking hit me," she muttered to the empty air. She could almost feel steam rise from her ears.

"Excuse me?" a lady's voice asked over the phone.

She'd been so busy worrying about Justin's next move that she forgot she had the police on the other line.

"Sorry," she said. "My husband and I got into a fight. He hit me pretty hard..."

While speaking to the 9-1-1 operator, Kyra put the knife down and let a wandering hand drift to her belly. It stung to the touch.

_There's definitely gonna be a big bruise there tomorrow_ , she thought.

•     •     •

It was past noon by the time Kyra awoke. She'd slept in the spare bedroom with the door locked and the knife clutched in her hands. Justin hadn't returned after she spoke with police, as far as she knew—the cop who took her statement, Officer Bartlett, had predicted as much—but as her mom (and everyone else's for that matter) used to say, _better safe than sorry._ So she got out of bed slowly, dragging her feet with her sore legs down the hall in a shuffle, peering around each corner like a player in a bad detective movie. It took a good half-hour of careful searching before she was amply satisfied that her husband wasn't lurking behind a curtain, under a table, or in the refrigerator. He was just...‌gone.

Kyra wasn't sure how much good calling the police had done. Officer Bartlett was plenty helpful, being the newbie he was, but Sergeant Jerry Baxter was another story. This was a guy who drank with her husband, bowled with her husband, even got _high_ with him on more than one occasion. When Jerry promised he would go talk with Justin, asked her to please not press charges, and proceeded to say it was nothing but a big misunderstanding, she told him to get out of her house and slammed the door in his face. Perhaps the folks at the courthouse would treat her differently. She could only hope so.

The coffee maker heaved its liquid sigh and Kyra poured herself a cup. She drank it without her usual cream and four sugars, wanting nothing more than to feel the throb of its black heat on her sore inner jaw to numb it. Whiskey would've worked better, but she was in no shape to go down _that_ road, not after the morning she'd had.

She went to sit at the kitchen table and felt a stab of pain in her midsection. The bruise was huge, all right, but that wasn't what went through her mind as she lowered her backside into the chair and rubbed the sore spot. No, that wasn't it, at all.

What she _did_ think about was how this whole mess had started in the first place.

It began more than twenty years ago, on a beautifully brisk April evening. Kyra and Justin had been dating for three years by then: he, the former high school jock still holding on to past glory a year past graduation; she, the striking cheerleader, the focus of many an underclassmen's pubescent fantasies. Kyra turned eighteen that day, and although she didn't feel any real sort of affection for her longtime boyfriend—their relationship had more or less been one built around the truism of social climbing, the way couplings between popular children many times are—it still pleased her to no end when, out of nowhere, Justin decided he would treat her to a romantic night out.

Justin spent the evening acting the perfect gentleman. He pulled out her chair at the restaurant, ran over to open the car door for her, and seemed to listen with interest when she spoke. For the first time Kyra began to think they had a future that would last beyond her inevitable departure for college. Her spirits rose and she drifted through the experience as if she'd been anointed princess for a night, excited beyond belief for whatever might come next.

They headed north after dinner, toward the town of Berwick, Maine. Justin parked his truck behind a dilapidated barn that overlooked a vast field. He brought a few blankets and guided her to the middle of that field, laying the biggest blanket out on the still-frosted grass. There they lay in peace for a while, staring up at the cloudless night sky. Kyra could hear his heart picking up its pace and hers rose to match it. His hand crept beneath her sweater and squeezed her breast and she didn't stop him. Neither did she stop him when he kissed her, or unzipped his pants, or hiked up her skirt, or clumsily fingered her, or pushed himself inside her. They made love briefly—not their first time, and definitely not their best, but still, she thought, quite special—until Justin stiffened and she felt her thighs grow sticky and warm. After that they curled into each other and lay there, he content and she somewhat so, until drizzle started to fall from the sky.

Kyra shook her head and took another burning sip of coffee. _Please don't go there, I don't want to go there_ , she thought, but what choice did she have in the matter? After the beating she'd gotten last night, there was no way in _hell_ this poor excuse for a marriage could be salvaged. She'd never have it. One of her stipulations, her guiding principles, had always been this: _Hitting me is a deal-breaker._ He'd hit her. _Beat_ her. Deal broken. End of story. In time, she would only have memories.

She glanced at the clock. Eight minutes past one o'clock. She'd slept less than five hours and her body felt it, but her mind seemed alive and eager. She stood up and walked into the living room. In daylight it didn't seem as menacing as it had when only the desk lamp lit it and Justin loomed over her, belting her with all his might. She got down on all fours, her knees and shin smarting along with the rest of her bruised body, and reached beneath the couch, grasping blindly until her hand found what it searched for—a plastic bag covered in a decade's worth of dust. She pulled the sack out, examined its contents from the outside, and flicked the edge with her finger. The last time she glanced at these little snippets of history she promised herself she'd throw them away, but she could never bring herself to actually do it. Now there they were, a small stack of four-inch squares concealed in plastic. She suddenly wished she _had_ tossed them out.

Kyra's body shook as she opened the bag and carefully removed one of the glossy images. A white border surrounded a black interior. The object in the center of the blackness—a smudged gray blur, somewhat oval in shape—looked like an abstract painting. Tears welled up as her eyes recognized first a foot, then a leg, then settled on the small, circular outline in the center of the mass, the heart that once beat vigorously inside her, the live-giving force of a spirit that never saw the light of day.

Those memories she didn't want came pouring back. She remembered everything: the way she felt when she first discovered the pregnancy; the way she hid it from her folks in fear that they'd disown her; the look on Justin's face, one of pure joy, when she told him; his proposal, dumb and naïve in an adorable way, down on one knee in the middle of an intra-town softball game; her wedding day, how handsome Justin looked, the pride on her mother's face, the promise of happiness in her own soul. _Please, stop!_ her mind screamed as tears cascaded down her cheeks. _I don't want what comes next!_

But there would be no stopping it.

In a flash, Kyra was there on the day she was in the supermarket, shopping with her mother, when she felt wetness slide down her legs. She felt the dizziness that followed, and the flash of hazy and bright images that followed that, as she was rushed to the hospital with blood covering her lower body. She saw the doctor's face as he said the words _placental abruption_ and went on to tell her the worst part—that a sudden surge of amniotic fluid had caused her placenta to tear from the wall of her uterus, doing untold damage to her insides and killing her child. They had to remove a part of her uterus, he said, simply out of precaution.

Kyra dropped her head in her hands and wept. She heard the doctor's voice when he told her she'd never have children. She remembered how hard Justin had taken the news, becoming a shell of the man he was now that the thing he wished for most was gone. Whereas before he at least tried, in his big dumb way, after their loss he surrendered to apathy. Not that Kyra took it any better. She pulled away from her friends, her husband, her family, herself, her inner strength and naiveté gone for good. Her relationship with Justin crumbled but never ended, her insides healed but never functioned correctly again, which mirrored the way she felt about little Steven, the son she'd never have.

She dropped her arm, letting the ultrasound photo dangle between her legs. Anger soon replaced sorrow, rearing its ugly head like an unwanted zit on prom night. She marched into the kitchen, flipped open the trashcan lid, and dropped the last remaining evidence of that sorrow in. There would be no more crying for past mistakes, no more giving in, no more giving up.

Not today, anyway.

•     •     •

At six o'clock that evening, the telephone rang. Kyra pried herself away from the television and answered it, hoping it was the attorney she'd spoken to earlier calling her back.

"Hello?" she said.

"Is this Mrs. Holcomb?" asked a man whose tenor seemed much too hesitant.

"It is. Who's this?"

"I'm Dr. Fitzsimmons, from Wentworth-Douglass..." His voice trailed off.

"Wentworth-Douglass? As in the hospital?" she asked.

"Uh, yes, ma'am."

"What's this about?"

The man cleared his throat and seemed to get his act together. "I'm calling about your husband, Mrs. Holcomb."

"Is he okay?" she asked, amazed she still felt a pang of concern.

"Well...‌I would say...‌something happened today...‌something we need you to come down here and talk to us about. I can't get into it over the phone. All I can tell you is that your husband is here and he's stable. If you could please come down when you get a chance, we would really like to speak with you."

"All right," she replied. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

It actually took a half-hour. The traffic seemed busier than usual. _Fridays_ , she thought, tailing a beaten-up old Ford Explorer with a bumper sticker that said, " _We are born naked, wet, and hungry. Then things get worse."_ She chuckled at the truth of it.

She arrived at the packed lot of Wentworth-Douglass and parked the car. She strolled across the pavement, her body still sore, and walked through the automated emergency room door. A nurse greeted her at the desk and pointed her in the direction of the elevator, which she took to a large, crowded waiting area on the second floor. Once there, she marveled at how many folks had gathered and the expressions they wore. It reminded her of those news shots of nervous family members gathered in Red Cross stations around New York City in the aftermath of September 11th, awaiting news of their loved ones.

Kyra made her way to the reception desk, where the attending nurse, a pretty black woman with kind, round features, stood behind the sliding window.

"Hello," said Kyra, "I'm Mrs. Holcomb. I'm here about my husband."

"Does he work for Capital Oil?" asked the nurse.

"Yes."

The nurse—Tiana, as her nametag stated—gestured in the direction of the others in the room. "Please, wait over there. The doctor will see you all in a few moments."

"Thank you," replied Kyra. She spotted an open chair outside the huddled throng and took it. She sat beside a slender young woman, who moved her purse from the area beneath Kyra's seat and held it in her lap. The woman never looked up as she did so, her blank face staring straight ahead in silence. Kyra offered her thanks but received no reply. She looked around then, noticing that no one else in the room had given her so much as a second glance. It was as if they were all hypnotized, with fifty sets of eyes ordered to stare at the ground. Kyra leaned back, closed hers, and waited.

Ten minutes later a doctor strode into the room. His short, fat body swayed with each step. The few remaining hairs on his head were matted down with nervous sweat. Those who lingered pulled their collective attention from the polished tile floor. The doctor pushed his glasses up from the tip of his nose with his right index finger and cleared his throat.

"Hello everyone, I'm Dr. Fitzsimmons," he said. "I spoke with many of you on the phone. I thank you for coming."

"What's going on here?" the voice of a large, older man boomed. "Where's my son?"

The nervous doctor shifted on his small feet. "You'll be able to see your loved ones shortly." He frowned and stared at his watch. His voice dropped to the point where Kyra could barely make out his words. "We're really not sure what's going on. Representatives from the CDC are on their way, but until they arrive, they are all to remain under strict supervision."

"What happened?" asked the formerly silent woman beside Kyra. Her voice came out mousy and timid.

Doctor Fitzsimmons shrugged. "We can't be certain. An emergency call was placed from the Capital Oil garage at one-thirty this afternoon. When the ambulance arrived, everyone inside appeared...‌sick. We've done some tests on them, but haven't been able to arrive at an acceptable diagnosis." He feigned a smile. "With that being said, I wouldn't worry too much about it. Everything that's being done is strictly precautionary. It might be something like Legionnaires', but more than likely it's nothing but a new strain of flu. They're all currently being administered heavy doses of antivirals, so hopefully this will be much ado about nothing."

There was something uncomfortable in the doctor's body language. _He knows something he's not telling us_ , Kyra thought. Others seemed to sense this, as well, because his words of reassurance did little to change the doubt on their faces. The doctor, obviously unnerved, lifted the chart in his left hand and ogled it as if it had a copy of _Penthouse_ beneath the metal clip. His actions said he was searching for a way to get past the uncomfortable silence.

Another doctor, this one young and Hispanic with deep blue eyes, emerged from the double doors. He whispered into Dr. Fitzsimmons's ear, who nodded intently.

"All right," Fitzsimmons said, addressing the crowd, "everyone follow me."

He led the group through the doors and down a long corridor. The sound of the linoleum as shoes squeaked over it, wet from the slow drizzle that had started an hour or so before, echoed off the pure-white walls. They entered another large room, one with a huge viewing window. There stood four unarmed security guards, two standing on either side of the locked door to the left. Bright fluorescent light shone from behind the enormous window. This seemed like an abnormal and _definitely_ unethical practice to Kyra, but she had no choice but to follow the leader. Dr. Fitzsimmons chatted with the guard closest to him, then ushered everyone forward. A series of gasps rose from the crowd.

Kyra pushed her way to the front and peered through the window. Four rows of gurneys lined the room behind the glass. At least twenty men and women were in there, IVs taped to their forearms. Their skin appeared spongy, virtually translucent, their veins clearly visible. An older woman screeched and began weeping. The kind young gentleman standing next to the woman put his arm around her, allowing her to sob into the lapel of his suit jacket. Kyra felt the woman's pain but could only stare with slack-jawed astonishment.

One of the patients was Harry, a boy of eighteen Kyra had first met at the company's Independence Day picnic. The youngster lifted his head and yellow secretions streaked with red tendrils dripped from the corner of his mouth. A tear trickled down Kyra's cheek. The Harry she remembered had been a strapping young man with pitch-black hair, soulful brown eyes, and a thinly muscled physique. Now he appeared thin, malnourished beyond belief. He moved his mouth, looking like he was trying to form words, and then his body started to shake. His arms lifted above his head and he turned away. It was as feeble a gesture as Kyra had ever seen. Another middle-aged woman in the group of observers howled and ran from the room. It was probably the young man's mother.

The ruckus of the screaming woman subsided and Kyra spotted Justin, laying three cots down from Harry. His large features were bloated to the point of absurdity. He was unconscious, his chest rising and falling at odd intervals. She could almost hear his rasping through the soundproof glass. He coughed. His eyes opened for a brief second, stared blankly at the ceiling, and then closed.

Kyra turned her back to the scene, nudged her way through the crowd, and returned to the sitting room. Sadness overwhelmed her and she cried openly. These tears were not for Justin, he who'd broken his vow never to hurt her, but for the innocent boy; for Harry, the youngster who'd never hurt a fly, who had never said an unkind word in her presence. Suddenly this whole mess became her husband's fault. _Fuck you, Justin_ , she thought. _You're the one who deserves this. Not him._

An unexpected commotion broke out, drawing her attention. A crowd of nurses and cleaning staff had gathered around the corner television, shooting snippets of conversation back and forth, their eyes glued to the screen. The sound of what appeared to be a digital foghorn filled the air.

Kyra approached the group and spotted Tiana the nurse. "What's going on?" she asked.

"Emergency broadcast," replied Tiana in a far away, frightened voice. "The damned horn's been going off for the last five minutes."

Kyra nodded and looked at the television. **URGENT MESSAGE: PLEASE STAND BY** flashed across the screen. She knelt down in the front so others could see over her. The message faded away and an image appeared: a portly man she recognized but couldn't exactly place, with thinning brown hair and wearing a disheveled gray suit that hung from his shoulders like a drape, stood behind the presidential podium. He opened his mouth and spoke, his eyes wide and dire.

"Citizens of this great nation," he said, "this is not a test."

## CHAPTER 4

### LIES

"Good evening, America," Tom Steinberg said. He squinted through the glare of spotlights and camera flashes, thankful their brightness transformed the rows of reporters sitting below him into unrecognizable black smears. _Damned leeches_ , he thought, and widened his grin into the phoniest of smiles before continuing.

"I am here to speak with the citizens of this great nation about the current state of affairs, both in this country and around the world. The President and his cabinet are engaged in emergency sessions with world leaders as we speak, discussing the events of the last few weeks and how we are to handle them. It is my duty, as House Speaker, to convey their findings to you.

"As many of you may know by now, there have been outbreaks of violence along the shores of Central and South America for the last four weeks. With the economy of these countries in decline for some time and the rise of the drug cartels and local warlords, especially in Mexico, we at first considered these to be isolated incidents involving confined insurgents. It has been brought to our attention, however, that pockets of hostility have crossed the borders of Texas and California. This happened five days ago."

Tom cleared his throat and glanced at his notes. "Now, it seems, there have been attacks in other countries, as well. Great Britain, France, Libya, and as far east as Taiwan have all reported similar incidents over the past week. This morning I received an official record from CIA director Roger Leckner based on their investigations of these confrontations. Although I cannot disclose the totality of these findings, I have been instructed to inform you all that significant data has been gathered, which concludes that these attacks have been the result of a massive global terrorist operation, organized and funded by Al Qaeda, The Children of Diyala, and other fundamentalist Muslim organizations. At present time, the military has been dispatched to the affected areas in an effort to quell the violence." Tom slammed his fist on the podium. "We will stop them," he said with feigned conviction. "This country _will not_ bend to the whims of terrorists. All insurgents will be found and dealt with swiftly. There is no reason for panic. The situation is under control."

In the crowd of reporters, a woman he recognized raised her hand. Tom sighed and waved her off. He'd already seen her column in the Washington Post earlier that day and had to suppress her line of questioning before it began.

"I know what you are going to ask, Marge," he said, then turned his eyes back to the cameras and addressed his unseen audience yet again. "There have been rumors circulated by certain individuals in this room that these events are the result of a biological agent. I am here to tell you, right now, that these rumors are completely unfounded. I have it on good authority from the CDC that there is indeed a powerful strain of influenza circulating through our classrooms and workplaces and homes, but it is nothing we cannot handle. A new vaccine will be distributed later this week, so remember everyone, make sure to get your shots. A healthy America is a happy America. And let me repeat, _we will stop the insurgency._ This is the state of the world we live in, nothing more, nothing less. Do not panic. If we stick together and trust our elected leaders to do what is in our best interest, we will all be fine.

"This...‌situation...‌will...‌be...‌remedied. And life will proceed as usual."

Tom lifted his notes and straightened them by tapping the edge on the podium. More reporters began to raise their hands but he shook them off. "That is all," he said. "Senator Hoffman will be fielding all questions. Take care, America, and God bless. Your country is behind you."

With that he nodded to the broadcast crew and walked off the stage. Tom's assistant, a pitiable little man named Peter Sherman, who had a crooked nose and thick spectacles and spoke with a nasal wine, greeted him as he descended the stairs. Peter looked nervous, his fingers tapping the clipboard in his hands as fast as a hummingbird's wings.

"You didn't follow protocol," said Peter. "Why didn't you read what I wrote?"

"Because it was shit," Tom replied. He tossed the pages in the garbage and signaled for a Secret Service agent to dispose of them. "Next time give me something I don't have to fudge my way through."

Pete's shrill voice reached a fevered pitch. "Do you know how much trouble we're going to be in? You changed the whole thing, Tom! We have no proof of _anything_ you just said! Not to mention you implicated groups that might _really_ start to do something once they find out you've— _we've_ —blamed them. This is going to spiral out of control. Pendergrass will ream us for sure on top of that, if the Arab Consulate doesn't come down on us first!"

"Pendergrass doesn't matter," said Tom. He raised an eyebrow at one of the military personnel lurking about the back room—General Moore, if he remembered correctly—and, when satisfied they were out of earshot, told Peter, "Neither does anyone else."

"But—"

"But nothing, Sherm. We're all that's left. The shit you gave me...‌what did you want me to do with it, create a panic? We can't make that kind of information available to the public. We wouldn't be able to control them. Come on, you've been around here long enough to know how it works. We give them the devil they know. They're _comfortable_ with that. Like children."

Peter opened his mouth to retort but shut it when Tom glared at him. _Good little lackey_ , Tom thought, smiling on the inside. _Always remember who has the power._

•     •     •

The rear of the limo and a bottle of scotch provided the relief Tom needed. With the partition up, his own breathing and the muted drone of tires rolling over pavement were the only sounds he could hear. This was the way he liked it. No one to spill an endless stream of drivel into his ears, no one to tell him the way things _had to be done_ , no one to question his decisions. If only he could quiet the chatter of his own thoughts, then the moment might have approached nirvana.

In all his years of greasing the squeaky wheel of democracy, Thomas Steinberg had never found himself entrenched in a situation he couldn't handle, be it the war in the Middle East, ten years running and still going strong, or the shady dealings behind the former administration's re-election, and he thought he'd seen it all. The current state of affairs, however, felt different. There was so much confusion and so little damned knowledge. Everyone found themselves running around like frightened squirrels and Tom thought it only a matter of time before a semi came barreling down the road. He seemed to be the only one keeping his head about him. He had to. One misstep and all he'd worked for would go up in flames.

A shot of chilled scotch slid over his tongue and down his throat. He welcomed the burn that followed. Nothing quelled the demons better than Balvenie on the rocks. The world sped by outside his darkened limousine windows, the monuments and administrative buildings of the capital giving way to the houses, estates, and shopping centers of the surrounding suburbs. The sun had finally dropped behind the mountains and the sky reflected a deep rose color, tingeing the neighborhood in ghostly purples. _Isn't that ominous_ , Tom thought. He giggled while he poured himself another glass of liquid heaven.

He had always been an intelligent and motivated man, and now the discarded piece of him that remembered rising to be the youngest DOT director in New York's history barked its disapproval. _What happened to the virtue of honesty?_ it asked. _What happened to 'the people come first'? How about dealing with what's in front of you with a shred of decency, dignity, and perseverance? Look at you now. Your words are toxic. You spray propaganda over an unsuspecting public, knowing it will lead to disaster, and you can only live with yourself by getting hammered. Is this what's become of us? Is this what you promised Allison?_

"Shut up," Tom muttered, thankful the driver couldn't hear him behind the three inches of bulletproof glass separating them. "I can't hear you anymore."

He wished that were the case, but he _did_ hear the voices, and knew they spoke the truth. The good folks of America, some being the citizens of Pennsylvania who'd elected him representative five times, were dying. The virus he had found it so easy to lie about had spread like a vicious rumor through not only the Americas, but countries around the globe. Those in the know called it _Wrathchild_ , spoken in whispers throughout the medical and political communities. They said it originated somewhere in Central America, reducing its victims to murderous hordes of drooling, rage-filled human echoes. No one knew how to stop it and no one understood how it spread. The doctors and scientists dispersed to the affected areas were never heard from again.

They were running out of time. By even the most conservative estimates, every corner of the globe would be infected in less than a month.

"That's what you don't get," Tom whispered to his conscience. "There's nothing else I can do."

The limo dropped him off at home. Normally during times of crisis he would be accompanied by at least one Secret Service agent, but Washington lay in shambles while the President, everyone's top priority, fled with the rest of those liberal fucks in his cabinet, along with a small militia, to the bunker hidden beneath Camp David. That left the rest of them understaffed and alone. This didn't trouble Tom Steinberg, however. He thought it was better this way.

He glanced at the dark sky when he stepped out of the limo and waved the driver away. The cold was sharp, yet bearable. Crickets chirped from behind the thin line of trees surrounding his house. Bats swooped about, tweeting their sonic catcalls across the darkness. He rubbed his temple, aware of the dizziness that said the whiskey had done its work. There were worse places to be than where he found himself now—alone, in the relative quiet, with a good buzz coming on, and no one to answer to. He didn't feel so bad at all.

A photograph of his family greeted him as he walked in the door. It hung in the foyer, the first thing he saw each time he entered. The portrait had been taken the previous year, during their December holiday. Tom stared at his likeness. He looked as plump as could be, with round, smooth cheeks that shimmered with the camera flash. Allison stood beside him, his wife of nine years. Her curly brown hair framed her English features—high cheeks, upturned nose, thin red lips—and made them more beautiful than ever. Her smile could reduce granite to magma.

Perched on a stool the foreground, grinning as if to expose every one of her baby teeth, was Shelly Renee Steinberg. She'd been four when the picture was taken, a child that embodied innocence and childhood bliss. She possessed the singing voice of an angel—a talent she loved to show off during her parents' many social gatherings—and a demeanor that would make a blithe gypsy-girl proud. While studying the picture, all the thoughts Tom assumed he'd left trapped in the whiskey bottle came roaring back. His young wife and daughter's gentle faces stared at him with unconditional love. They would disapprove of his actions, both present and past, should they ever find out. Of this he had no doubt. At least he didn't have to face them this evening, as they were in Chicago visiting Allison's mother.

A putrid stench wafted across his nostrils and his stomach lurched. He cupped his hand over his nose and mouth, trying to hide the smell beneath his Purell-scented fingers. Had Allison left some meat out? It was certainly possible, and seeing as he hadn't been home in the three days since she left, it would make sense. He went into the kitchen, turned on the light, and glanced around. Everything seemed to be in order, but still seemed off. He looked at the windows. _Did I pull the blinds? I don't remember._ That nauseating scent persisted.

He snatched an aerosol can from the cabinet below the sink and sprayed it everywhere. _It's mice_ , he thought. _One died in the walls. I should've called the exterminator months ago._ It was the only explanation he could think of, so he ran with it. He would call Chuck in the morning and have the place fumigated. In the meantime, with the deodorant mist hanging in the air, he was resigned to spending the night in a house that smelled of chemical-laced, flowery shit.

Down the corridor was the den, and he walked with the spray can held in front of him like a cop with his pistol. A headache spiked behind his eyes, brought on by the combination of liquor and inhaling toxic fumes. He yawned, cracked his back, and flopped into his recliner, thinking he'd put off taking some aspirin until he couldn't stand the pain any longer.

He found the television remote wedged beneath the cushions. An adhesive film covered the device's gray plastic exterior, making the buttons sticky. Tom sniffed his fingers. Raspberry jam. Little Shelly's image entered his mind again. He saw her running around with her favorite doll, Miss Molly, in one hand, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the other. That subtle cramp of sadness emerged again. Tom swiftly clicked on the television.

The picture lit up the room. BBC World Report on public television. According to the text, he was looking at a scene from Burma, where flaming cars flanked gray-clad troops who rumbled down the road sitting on a tank. _Not today_ , thought Tom, and he flipped through the channels until he found his destination. FOX News. His curiosity piqued. _How are they going to weasel out of this one? Will it even be mentioned?_ The crawl at the bottom of the screen announced local vaccination sites, but nothing else was said on the matter. A plain-looking woman with black spectacles ("The required costume of any female field reporter," as George Stoolie, a senator from Florida, once said) appeared on the screen, standing in front of an old church. "Father Cahill, president of the Arch Diocese of Burgan County," she said, "announced today that the church will support federal legislation, presented yesterday before the Supreme Court, that would officially ban gay marriage in all fifty states." Tom couldn't help but laugh. The world was falling apart and _this_ was the garbage they threw out there? Of course. This was the _national_ media, after all, the primary tool of any powerful government, working to its fullest, just as he liked. No pesky "investigative journalists" here. Keep them scared, as a great man once said, and they won't question any decision until it's too late.

_Quite a show, Thomas._

The voice in his head snapped him to attention. "Who's there?" he called out. No one answered. He turned his thoughts away from it, convinced his mind was playing tricks on him.

The half-hour segment ended and Tom turned off the set. His head hurt even worse now. He watched sparks of dust flicker with electricity on the screen and cursed the fact that he had turned it on in the first place. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, prepared to lift his tired body off the chair in search of that aspirin.

He placed his hands on the armrests and paused. A sound emerged, hidden beneath the trickle of water running through the house's pipes and the chirping of crickets outside. He covered his ears, but it didn't help. The more he tried to inhibit the noise, the clearer it became: slurping, like hands covered in thick, industrial cleaning goop wrung together.

He peered around the back of the chair into the black expanse of his den. An outline emerged against the far wall, that of a man sitting cross-legged. Tom blinked rapidly, trying to brighten the image, but his eyes couldn't adjust to the darkness. The slurping appeared again, forming a knot in Tom's stomach. _Don't be such a pussy. Get up and turn on the lights. You'll see that there's nothing there._

On legs that felt much too heavy, he stood up and tiptoed across the room. His finger reached out and searched for the light switch. The cold, hard plastic felt comforting beneath his fingertips, a mark of normalcy during a psychotic moment. Tom sighed and started to flip the switch.

"Don't do that."

He froze. The voice sounded twisted and guttural, and seemed to come at him from every direction, putting intense pressure on his already aching head. Yet there was something almost sweet about it. Soothing. If only it didn't make him feel as if his skull would explode. He removed his finger from the switch and covered his ears again.

"Who's there?" he asked. His brain seemed to have turned to mush.

"Step away from the wall, Thomas."

Tom did as he was told and shuffled sideways into the middle of the room, where he stood suspended, as if in a trance, with his palms still pressed against his ears. The idea of what he must look like caused him to break into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

"Stop that, Thomas," the voice said, and abruptly the spasm stopped. Tom lowered his arms.

"What's going on?" he asked, and as absurd as the next question seemed in his own head, he asked anyway. "Have I gone crazy?"

The voice didn't answer. Not a good sign. Tom strained his eyes but they still wouldn't focus. Splotches of fireworks bounced across his vision. He stepped forward, heading toward the vague image.

"Come no closer."

The thing against the wall stood up and Tom froze. He heard joints snap and a discouraged-sounding sigh. The shadow grew longer and taller. Spit dribbled down the corner of his mouth, which hung open, but he could do nothing to stop it. The harder he tried to make his body move, the stiffer his muscles became. The steady drumming of his heart slowed to an ungodly slow pace and his breathing felt strained. Despite all this, that peculiar sensation of calm continued. He felt like he'd gone and gotten himself stoned.

The man-shape approached him with long, erratic strides. It moved the way a drunk would, shaking and falling to the side with every other step. It seemed to take forever for the figure to cross the relatively short distance between them.

Tom's eyes grew irritated and blurry as they stared, straight ahead and unblinking, and the unclear image became even hazier. It stopped a few feet in front of him.

"Don't just stand there," the voice said, and Tom's shoulders hunched. He balled his fists and rubbed his sore eyes. His heart picked up its beat, and for the first time he let the strangeness of the voice sink in. A hodgepodge of accents, some he recognized and some he didn't, weaved through every word: British, Cantonese, Russian, and Spanish, all crammed into one. He found it beautiful, the hoarse and sodden panting heard beneath it notwithstanding.

"Who are you?" asked Tom.

"I am not really sure," the voice replied. "I know of purpose. I know of past. But not of identity. It is strange." Tom swore he heard a sense of longing in its exotic tone, and after a long pause it said, "Sam. Yes, I like that name. Sam it is."

"Do you know me?"

It giggled, and uneasiness cramped Tom's dreamlike state. "Thomas David Steinberg," the voice stated. "Born in Brooklyn, New York. The only son of David and Greta Steinberg. Husband of Allison Bronwyn, father of Michelle Renee. Graduated with High Honors from Yale University. Promoted to director of the New York Department of Transportation at twenty-three years old. Elected State Treasurer at age twenty-nine. Entered into national politics four years later and was elected representative of the state of Pennsylvania, a position held for the last nineteen years. Currently a year into serving a third term as Speaker of the House." That creepy giggle came again. "Yes, Thomas, I know you."

Tom stepped back. The illusory tranquility melted away as scenarios jumped through his mind. Was this guy CIA? Had Pendergrass heard his speech and decided enough was enough? Had one of the organizations he'd pissed off over the years decided to take matters into their own hands? He had no way of knowing.

"Get _away_ from me," he said, backpedaling.

"There is nothing to be afraid of, Thomas," the shadow-man said. Its tone became the soothing one from earlier. "I do not want to hurt you."

The man stepped into the light shining in from the hallway and Tom gasped. The thing before him was _not_ a man, though it might have been at one time. It wore a pair of khaki shorts and a tan, button-up shirt stained a deep crimson around the collar and sleeves. Its flesh was of a reddish tint, gleaming as light reflected off of the pus bubbles which covered it. But the face struck Tom worst of all. Not a hair covered the top of its head and its skin had deteriorated to nothingness from the nose on down. Muscles flexed as that mouth opened and closed, and the tongue, a huge, black slug of a thing, flopped to the side. The eyes that peered out of its near-lidless sockets were the only thing about the beast that seemed alive. They were large and bloodshot with glowing yellow irises. Tom backed up further. His knee struck the corner of the coffee table and he stumbled. He glanced frantically around the room in a dead panic, searching for a way out. If only he could get to his desk in the study. Getting the thirty-eight caliber pistol stored in the locked bottom drawer was all he could think about.

The thing lurched forward until it stood mere inches from him. It stunk of month-old roast beef, and Tom had an ill-timed moment of clarity.

_That explains the smell._

The creature's head tilted to the side and those swelled-up eyes grew even larger. It wheezed, a string of mucus streaming from the jagged remnants of its nose. Tom's heart pounded. He feared it would seize up at any moment. A black and red hand, runny with slime, fell on his shoulder and then moved down until it rested on his left breast.

"So alive," the thing hissed. "So perfect."

Tom sensed his world grow foggy. "Pl...‌please don't..." he began.

The thing's other hand lifted and a decayed finger pressed against Tom's lips. It reeked, positioned right below his nose, and had the feel of an old, soggy frankfurter. Its face drew in close enough for Tom to see maggots wiggling beneath its translucent skin. Once again his stomach lurched.

"No speaking," it said. The words came out slurred and choppy. "Let me know you understand."

Tom nodded.

"Do you want to live?"

Tom nodded.

"Do you want any harm to come to your family?"

Tom shook his head.

"Good. I know you cannot comprehend what is happening here, but that is all right. All you have to know is that I need you. You are a good soldier, Thomas. Good at taking orders. You are very important to me. I need you, and for your cooperation, you will not be harmed. Do you appreciate this?'

Again, Tom nodded.

The thing that called itself Sam cocked its head to the other side. "I believe you," it said, and removed the finger from his mouth.

"What do I have to do?" asked Tom. He felt like he was watching someone else's life.

The Sam-thing didn't answer. Instead, with a snapping motion that seemed much too quick, it pressed its mouth to his. Tom struggled against the pressure of its grasp but couldn't break free. That disgusting slug of a tongue pushed against his locked lips, prying them open, violating him, snaking against the inner walls of his cheeks, forcing his gullet to widen. Tom wanted to scream but the thing's grip forced the air from his lungs. The creature hiccupped and a gush of warm, sticky fluid poured into Tom's mouth and down his throat. It burned as it rushed down his esophagus and into his stomach. He gagged and convulsed and the creature released him. He fell to the floor and clawed at his neck. His chest felt like it was on fire. The world began slipping away.

He gazed up at the trespasser with pleading eyes, but its back was to him. _I'm dying, I'm dying, I'm dying_ , he thought.

"Stop being a baby," the abomination said without turning around. "You will be fine."

Tom's vision faded until dim outlines were all he could see. The silhouette of a monster slipped to the living room entryway then stopped. Its intense yellow eyes glowed—the only color Tom could see.

"You will have a mess to clean up in the morning," it said. "I know you excel at that sort of thing."

Tom lost consciousness.

•     •     •

The alarm clock sounded at 8:13 AM. Tom slapped the snooze button. His head hurt and the irritating streaks of morning sun shining in beneath the drawn shades made him squint. He pulled the covers over his head. It had been months since he'd been able to sleep past five, because of this and that meeting, so-and-so needing to speak with him about vastly important matters, his cell phone ringing every five minutes. These were the events that usually filled his every waking moment, yet on this day there was nothing. He reached over and grabbed the phone off the nightstand to see one new message, from Allison the night before. Probably nothing important.

_I could get used to this_ , he thought.

The idleness got to him and he stood up. His satin pajamas were cool and soothing as they swept against his skin. He walked into the bathroom on autopilot, his head still groggy. After a good piss he brushed his teeth and flossed, then meandered downstairs and opened the front door. He must have stared out into the crisp morning air for five minutes, confounded. Every day for the past six years the morning paper had waited for him on the welcome mat, consistent as clockwork. Now...‌nothing. "Huh," he muttered, and walked back into the house.

His cell phone, in the pocket of his bathrobe, rang a few moments later. _Guess I couldn't count on a miracle._ He flipped it open and put the receiver to his ear while striding into the kitchen for his ritual cup of coffee.

"Hello?" he said. The voice on the other end clamored in excitement. "Wow, slow down, Pete. What's going on?" Still more frantic nonsense. "Calm yourself, man. I'll take care of it when I get in. No, I overslept. No, I didn't hear from Lassiter. I don't care what..."

Tom stopped dead in his tracks at the kitchen doorway and stared. "I have to go, Pete," he said, and snapped the phone shut before his assistant could respond. "Holy shit," he whispered.

A body lay on the cold tile floor. It was naked. Clothes were piled neatly—folded, even—on the center island. With his body shuddering, Tom circled the corpse. It was a rather large woman, split open from throat to pelvis. Bloody flaps of skin had been peeled back, forming a diamond-shaped gorge, and her insides appeared mangled, as if a wild dog had taken to gnawing away at her kidneys, liver, and heart. The ribcage jutted out like a sinking ship in an ocean of red, and her intestines dangled over her fleshy sides. Tom bent over on knees that felt like rubber to get a better look at the woman's face.

"Fuck."

Rita Lancaster had lived next door to the Steinberg family since the day they arrived in this town. She proved to be the typical nosy neighbor, constantly showing up at the worst moments, knocking on the door to ask for a cup of milk or if someone could spare an extra cigarette—an odd request Rita somehow never learned not to ask since neither Tom nor Allison smoked. On more than one occasion he'd caught her peeking her intrusive nose over the dining room windowsill. He didn't like her (it bordered on hate), but she was nice to Shelly, always bringing her little trinkets, and Allison had taken to passing him dirty looks each time he groaned in disgust when she came over, so he learned to put up with it. "She's just lonely," Allison would say. "Does it really hurt to show her a little attention?"

Now there she was, Rita Lancaster of 157 Oak Lane, lying with her chest split open on Tom's kitchen floor. _She probably came over to ask if we had any coffee filters_ , he thought. An inappropriate chuckle escaped his throat. _Boy, I bet she was surprised._

Without thinking, Tom grabbed his keys off the wall and strolled into his study. He opened the locked bottom drawer of his desk and took out his revolver. It was heavy in his hand. He inspected the chambers and saw that all six were full. Good.

His every action seemed like a blur. A sliver of his subconscious asked why he would be doing this, but the knowledge in his waking mind told it to shut up, that he knew what to do. He went back into the kitchen, leaned over Rita's body, and pulled back the hammer. He pointed the barrel at the middle of her pasty white forehead, and waited.

Rita's eyes snapped open, and Tom put a bullet in her skull.

•     •     •

The bright morning sun reflected off the roof of Tom's BMW. He put on his sunglasses, debating for a moment whether to call the limo service for a ride. His eyes rose to the sky. _It's going to be a beautiful day_ , he thought. _Screw the limo._ He hadn't paid seventy-five grand for this black beauty to let it rot in his driveway.

He'd never felt better as he hummed _Cracklin' Rose_ , opened the Beamer's door, and plopped down in the driver's seat. He glanced to his left and saw the family two houses down packing their van. The escapist within said they were getting ready for vacation. The realist, the one who _understood things_ , knew better. _They're scared. They think they'll run to Canada, where it's safe._ He chuckled. _Nowhere's safe. Not anymore._

The car rumbled to life when he turned the key. He pressed down on the gas and listened to the engine roar, grinning from ear to ear. It was such a beautiful sound.

_Do not get distracted, Thomas_ , the persistent new voice in his head ordered.

"Whatever," he mumbled, and then did what he was supposed to. He picked up his phone and dialed the number he needed.

It was answered after two rings. "Larry," he said, "this is Tom Steinberg. Yes, I haven't heard from you in a while, either. Not since Florida eight years ago. Now listen, I have job for you. Got to keep this under wraps, you hear? No, no questions. No one needs to know a thing. Just come to my house. Bring the Cleaning Crew. I've got a bit of a...‌mess in my kitchen. Yes, standard procedure. I'll work out the details with Peter this afternoon. No, you don't have to worry about a thing. Just get over here. And prepare yourself; it isn't pretty."

He was about to hang up when the image of two smiling faces appeared in his mind's eye. "Oh, and Larry," he said. "Ally and Shelly will be back by three this afternoon. So you'd better make it quick."

He backed the Beamer out of the driveway and sped away. He'd never felt so full, so at peace, in all his life. It was as if his whole existence had suddenly slipped into place, as if every choice he'd ever made had the purpose of leading him to this moment right here, right now, driving sixty-seven miles an hour through empty side streets. The image of the previous night's encounter was nothing but a speck of dust on the surface of his cognition. He didn't understand what was happening, but it didn't matter. What _did_ matter was that Tom Steinberg was important. Tom Steinberg was needed. Tom Steinberg was _special_. It struck him as no consequence if he had to sell his soul in the process. Hell, he'd done it before. _That's what you call it when a man of strong Jewish heritage becomes the figurehead for the New Christian Right. Selling your soul._ It was his father's voice, scolding him from his deathbed.

The old man had been gone for years, and his words meant nothing. Tom laughed and turned on the radio. There were no urgent warnings to be heard, no fearful commentators presenting doomsday scenarios to a terrified public. The cheerful voice of a hipster deejay came over the airwaves, saying the cold snap had ended. "It's gonna be a mild day in the D.C. area today, cats," the deejay chirped, "so get ready for some rockin' oldies!"

_You Can't Always Get What You Want_ by the Stones started playing. Tom hummed along and drove onward, gleefully anticipating his day.

_The devil you know_ , he thought. _Oh, yes, the devil you know._

## CHAPTER 5

### INNOCENCE

Josh reclined in the uncomfortable plastic chair, his cup of tea resting untouched on the table in front of him. The donut shop was empty that morning, which he didn't find shocking. The normal pre-work rush had been rapidly dwindling over the last few days as news of possible terrorist attacks and communicable diseases widened. Now he found himself relatively alone, with no one to keep him company but the cashier, his _Boston Globe_ , and the television on the wall.

He sat in silence with the paper spread open to the national news section. His eyes skimmed over lines of blurred words and he tried hard to focus. It took effort just to keep his eyes open, let alone read. He hadn't gotten a solid night's sleep in nearly a week. The nightmares, both real and in his head, saw to that.

A headline in bolded typeset stated ' _News of Our Day'_ , but it might as well have said ' _News of the Weird'_ or even ' _News of the Really Fucking Disturbing'_. Every article he skimmed painted dark, unsettling scenarios. There was one story on the "Rodent Flu", as the media had dubbed the new influenza epidemic (or pandemic; it seemed for a brief moment a few days ago that he'd seen news of cases in France and Norway, but not a word since), which had caused emergency rooms around the country to fill beyond max capacity. Then there were the odd cases that the lower-end tabloids had been reporting (and the bigger periodicals like the _Globe_ were now starting to pick up), chronicling cases of acute psychosis that affected all types of people, from young to old, healthy to sick. They were people who'd been the vision of sanity one day and then _BAM_ , they lose it. One article was of a boy who gouged his mother's eye out at his birthday party in Austin, Texas; another told of an eighty-year-old grandmother who opened fire with a hunting rifle at a mall in Clearwater, Florida, killing six. And to close it all out, there were the countless reports of rioting and terrorist activity that only a week ago seemed so far away but had now spread into North Carolina. Civil war seemed inevitable, with Muslims and other minority groups being attacked daily. _Hell_ , thought Josh. _Maybe we're already_ _at war._

He turned the page. "Is this the beginning of the end for U.S. sovereignty?" asked an editorial. Josh closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and started tapping his right foot nervously. It had all gone to hell. _I don't wanna be a grown-up anymore. I miss being a kid, with nothing to worry about except having a good time. Where did that innocence go?_

He shut the paper, folded it in half, tucked it under his arm, and stood up. The television on the wall, tuned to CNN with the sound thankfully off, showed a male field reporter framed in front of a ruined cityscape. Bursts of light flashed in the background. The reporter flinched and ducked when flames ejected from a window of the building behind him. The banner in the upper right-hand corner of the screen said: _Macon, GA._

Josh quickly turned his head away, nodding to the old lady with the far-away eyes behind the counter before exiting the building. His watch said it was seven-thirty, a half-hour before his shift began. With a few minutes to spare he stopped in the middle of the parking lot and gazed at the sky. The morning was much warmer than usual, close to sixty degrees already. For the first time in weeks there wasn't a cloud in the sky. As the sun heated his skin, he almost smiled. The dichotomy of this situation was not lost to him. The happy nerve endings beneath his flesh told him _life is beautiful._ The thoughts flying through his head said the opposite.

•     •     •

There were only two cars in front of J & P Diagnostics when Josh arrived. The workforce had taken their cues from the patrons at the donut shop, it seemed. He seriously considered turning around and driving home, but a lingering sense of responsibility—who would fill the orders if there was no one there?—forced him to park and head in.

He swiped his ID badge through the time clock, eerily aware of the silence inside the warehouse. "Hello?" he called out. His voice ricocheted off the aluminum walls and a touch of concern strummed at his temples.

He walked through the building. There wasn't a soul to be seen in the aisles of merchandise or on the loading dock, so Josh made his way to the manager's office. There he found James Conroy, the medical supply storehouse's janitor. James, a sixty-three-year-old Vietnam veteran, served as Josh's best friend in the place. He'd been an engineer in his younger days and his intelligence, combined with an outgoing nature, made him the only person Josh had met in his four years on the job that he felt completely comfortable around.

James beamed when he saw his young friend. "Good morning, kiddo," he said.

"What's up, Mister C?" asked Josh.

"No work today."

"No?"

"Nope. Rick shut us down. With all the call-outs, he said it's pretty useless to have a shift. Though you're the seventh person I've turned away, so maybe we could have gotten _some_ work done."

Josh grinned. "We gonna get paid for this anyway?"

"Supposedly," James said with a wink, "but you never know with these cheap bastards."

"I hear you. They're always trying to squeeze us, aren't they?" He flipped off the empty building.

"Oh, let's not have that, my boy. Don't even worry about it. Just go home. Have a good time. There's too much shit going on in the world right now to worry about something as useless as money."

"Money? Useless?"

James winked again. "If everything goes to hell, what good's a dollar gonna do you?"

Josh grimaced as the old man playfully nudged him.

"Don't look like that, Josh. You're young, my boy. You got your whole life ahead of you, no matter _what_ happens."

•     •     •

Josh napped the rest of the morning away, his sleep uninterrupted by his pesky subconscious for once. He awoke feeling refreshed and spent the rest of the day listening to music and reading old comics in an attempt to clear his head of the world's newfound dreadfulness. It seemed to work. By the time the sun began to dip beyond the horizon he felt downright jovial. He opened the freezer, scowling at the stacks of microwave dinners. No, he was in much too good of a mood for _that_ garbage. The perfect solution was to go to his folks' house yet again. It had been a few days, and he was sure they'd welcome his company.

He arrived at five-thirty, eagerly anticipating another home-cooked meal. What greeted him when he walked inside, however, was an emptiness that felt jarringly similar to what he had experienced in the warehouse. There were dirty dishes piled up in the sink and muddy tracks on the kitchen floor. In the Benoit household, both these sights were far from commonplace. Gail and Don Benoit believed ' _cleanliness is next to Godliness'_ to be a way of life.

"Hello?" he called out, again with that feeling of _deja-vu._ Hadn't he said that same thing, the same way, only nine hours earlier? "Hello?" he repeated, and still nothing. Josh turned to the window. The cars were still in the side port. It seemed that everyone had just...‌vanished.

A muffled sound reached his ears and he swiveled toward it. He approached the living room carefully, not wanting to make any noise in case of an intruder. When he was halfway across the kitchen he recognized the sound for what it was—intense, grief-filled sobbing. He took off toward the closed living room doors as fast as he could.

He threw the doors open and saw Sophia hunched over on the couch, face buried in her hands, weeping as her body shook. His mother sat on one side of her, running her fingers through her daughter's hair, while his father took the other side, his firm right hand squeezing Sophia's willowy shoulder. The scene was shocking enough to Josh, but the expressions on his parents' faces more than doubled it. He'd never seen them so disconcerted, with lips thin and quivering.

"What's going on?" he asked above Sophia's wails.

Don raised his head. He had tears in his eyes, and the joy Josh arrived with completely abandoned him. _Lest not the pillar of strength crumble._

"It's your cousin. Sean," Don said.

" _What happened?_ "

Gail leaned over, kissed Sophia on the cheek, and stood up. Her face transformed into that mask of strength that Josh knew all too well. With a silent wave of the hand, she walked past him and into the kitchen. Josh followed.

"Mom, what's happening?" he asked when they were safely out of earshot.

Gail spoke in a steady voice bordering on robotic. "Your Aunt Peggy called from Weymouth today. Sean had fallen ill a couple days ago. The doctors gave him the new vaccine and told them not to worry about it, that he'd be fine in a few days. That was two days ago. Peggy got home from work today and...‌and..."

The robotic tone was broken.

"And what, mom?"

"Sean hanged himself in the backyard. Without warning. Without a note."

Josh's mouth dropped open. Peggy Driscoll was his mother's younger sister, and Sean her only child, born two months after Sophia. He'd been a happy-go-lucky kid, though there seemed to be a strange quiet about him, a sweet vulnerability he tried his best to hide but couldn't, like a force field made of cotton candy. He and Sophia were close, in personality as well as in age. They were, in a way, best friends. _They're empathic children_ , Gail had said once. _It's what sets them apart. It's why they relate so well._

As he thought of this, Josh's gut twisted in knots. He couldn't imagine what Sophia must be going through.

"Should I go?" he asked.

"Of course not," said his mother, and she hugged him. Her resolve came back in that moment, and she spoke to him as the teacher she'd always been.

"Your sister needs you right now. You know how much she looks up to you. You're the most important thing to her—even more than Sean. Always have been. For you to leave now would devastate her."

He gave her a half-smile and they walked back into the living room together.

•     •     •

Josh held Sophia on the edge of her bed. She lay with her head in his lap and her hands tucked beneath her cheek while Josh rubbed her back. She wasn't crying any longer, but every so often her body would shudder.

"I'm sorry," he heard her say in a voice so faint he almost mistook it for the whistle of the wind blowing in through the open window.

"Sorry for what?"

She sniffled. "I know you probably don't wanna be here."

He gently grabbed her shoulders and guided her into a sitting position. Streaks of tears made her cheeks glisten and her lips trembled like a baby's. She definitely wasn't a little girl any longer, but she still appeared childlike.

He wiped her trickling nose with his bare hand. "C'mon, Rascal. Of _course_ I want to be here. I'll always be there for you. You know that."

Sophia nodded. Her eyes drifted to the floor.

Josh nudged her with his leg. "Buck up, soldier," he said. "Talk to me."

She looked at him again and her wide blue eyes filled with tears. "I'm scared," she said.

"I know," replied Josh.

"Sean's dead. He's gone. He's not coming back."

"I know."

"I mean, I just saw him last month. He was f-f-fine. We talked about high school. He wanted to go so bad."

"I know."

She broke down. "N-n-now he's n-n-never gonna g-go. He's n-n-never gonna c-c-come over and play X-Box. He w-w-won't ever get to tell Lucy Underhill how much he l-l-likes her."

"I know."

" _Stop saying that!_ " Sophia shrieked, her voice quavering with anger. It was such a sudden reversal that Josh almost fell off the bed in surprise. She began flailing her arms, whacking him on the chest and neck.

"Whoa!" he yelped as he leaned away from her thrashing. "What's wrong?"

"You don't care! You don't care at all!"

She took a swipe at him, but Josh grabbed her wrist before her fist connected. He took his free hand and swung it around her back, pulling her into him. There he held her close to his chest, fighting against her spasms. She jabbed him with her elbow and kneed him on the inner thigh, but he wouldn't let go.

Her rage gradually subsided, and Josh let his sister melt into him. Her thin frame went limp and she started crying all over again. It wasn't the subdued whimper of a young girl who'd lost her best friend, but the mighty, piercing howl of a wounded animal. It agonized him to hear those sounds coming from his baby sister. He wanted to sit her up and console her, but dared not let her go.

"I'm sorry," he whispered instead. "Let it all out."

She did, yowling until exhaustion forced her to sleep. Josh released his bear hug and laid her out on the bed. A moan escaped her lips as she curled into the fetal position. She pulled the covers up to her neck, cradling them as she had her baby dolls when she was a toddler. Josh watched her in silence, waiting until her breathing became steady. He briefly considered going downstairs but decided otherwise, instead stretching out beside her and wrapping his arms around her upper body, trying to shield her from pain using his own body as the armor.

"I'm here for you, Rascal," he said. "I'll never let anything happen to you."

"Promise?" asked Sophia, sounding far away.

"I promise."

_###_

_The lady of shadows guides him through a landscape of lush sea grass. She walks far ahead, on a horizon where the separation between day and night appear as clear as the sun reflecting off the water's surface. He looks at her with mystery, but no matter how much he tries to focus, her image remains as vague as a whisper._

_The beach sand feels cool beneath his feet. A soft wind blows through his hair. The sounds all around him create a natural percussive symphony. The crashing waves play the cymbals, the wind howling across the dunes is the bass drum, the seagulls' guffaw the chiming of a hundred triangles. He smiles as he walks and the sonata, which plays only for him, causes his mind to wander. Before long he forgets about his mysterious guide altogether and finds himself alone._

_At the beach's end he crosses a narrow pathway cut between two rows of palm trees. The music of the ocean becomes fainter the farther inward he treks, and then it disappears. He doesn't mind. Another song has replaced it, one much closer to home._

_The soft vibrato of a woman singing._

_He follows the sound, entranced. The song builds up in his ears, fills his head. The sand underfoot grows hard and unforgiving, his surroundings become hazy. He ignores these things and moves onward. Finding the song's source is all that matters._

_The environment changes again. Pastel greens and blues are replaced by the cold grays and browns of a city. The buildings that rise above him are the hollowed husks of steel giants. A single sheet of paper skitters across the pavement, blown by a waft of stale air. The sky overhead is filled with billowing, ominous clouds._

_The song in his head persists. He follows it. He has no choice._

_It leads him down deserted side streets, past abandoned shops whose windows have long since been smashed and overturned cars whose tires still spin. The melody grows stronger with each step he takes._

_He arrives at a large arched doorway hovering in the middle of the road. This should be strange to him but it is not, because the singing has become clear, and he can understand every word. "_ Rich relations may give you," _it says,_ "a crust of bread and such." _He grasps the door handle. It is cold. He pulls the door open, creating a never-ending black void where the street should be. Unafraid, he steps inside._

_A burst of light greets him. The flare subsides and he finds himself in a hotel lobby. An_ expensive _hotel lobby. The interior is painted in warm oranges and yellows. There are chairs and couches and a grand piano. And there are ferns, as well. Lots of ferns._

_He walks over an Asian-inspired rug. Its fibers caress the bottoms of his shoeless feet. The song is much louder here, filling every empty space with its beautiful harmony._

_He wanders past the reception desk and down a long hallway that leads to yet another hallway. He walks a straight line that seems to slope downward until the corridor ends at a pair of huge wooden doors. He stops there. '_ ** _Grand Ballroom'_** _, the placard on the left reads. A large white banner hangs above the entryway. Most of the smaller words are smudged and unreadable, but the largest are still there, proclaiming, '_ ** _50 AND COUNTING!'_** _in thick, black letters._

_The doors open without the help of his hand and he steps into the room. The music stops. He looks around. There are more ferns here, as well as palm trees. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Empty tables and inverted chairs circle a parquet dance floor._

_It is what lies in the center of this dance floor that captures his interest._

_A woman sits in a folding chair, her head down. There is a bassinet beside her that she rocks with her right hand. Her foot is tapping, but he can hear no sound. He takes a step forward and tries to call out to her, but his throat will not form words. So he walks up, kneels beside her, and lifts her chin._

_He recognizes her. It is the one from his past, the one from his dreams. Marcy. Her lips move listlessly, mimicking the song he can no longer hear. Her eyes look right through him, and there is a frightening dullness in her stare. He stands up, unsure of what to do next._

_Without warning or expectation, she is standing now, in front of him. Brightness reflects in eyes that had moments before seemed empty. She gawks at him. Her mouth opens and forms words, but no sound can pass through the vacuum between them. Her right hand grabs him by the elbow. His flesh burns where she touches him. He tries to force himself away from her, but she is too strong. She pulls him close and puts her lips against his ear. They are cold, these lips, so cold. And then she speaks, and this time he listens._

_"WAKE UP!"_

•     •     •

Josh felt the misplaced sensation of floating. This directly preceded the back of his head slamming against the floor, followed by the rest of his body. Sharp stabs of pain shot through him. He opened his eyes.

The bed loomed above him like a far-away cliff. "Ow," he groaned. He felt where he'd struck his head. A fleshy knot had already started to form. _That's gonna be huge tomorrow_ , he thought.

Another pain emerged. He clenched his teeth and looked at his left arm. There, on the inside of his elbow, were four tiny red lines. In the dark they looked like victory markings on a bar chalkboard. Blood trickled from these lines, blood he wiped away with his finger. The wound stung to the touch, pain that seeped up his forearm and throbbed in the back of his hand.

_No way_ , he thought, and shook his head.

A rustling sound reached his ears, followed by a muffled groan. The bed shook. "Sophia?" asked Josh. When no one replied, he got up as fast as he could on his still-sore, still-weary legs.

It took a moment to understand what he saw when he faced the bed. With the only light being the green glow of the alarm clock, it looked as if Sophia was trying to suffocate herself with one of her stuffed animals. Perhaps she had simply pulled the covers over her head.

"Rascal?" he said, and then reached out.

The bundle of fur where Sophia's head should've been was sodden to the touch. Whatever it was rippled and a high-pitched, buzzing scream filled the air. Josh pulled back and the thing on his sister's head jerked. A new blast of pain shot up Josh's wrist.

"Fuck!" he screamed, clutching at the new abrasion. The thing removed itself from his sister's head—Sophia was gasping for air—and started to make its way to the other side of the mattress. Josh would have none of it. In a fit of anger he clutched the wiggling ball of hair with both hands and lifted it above his head while it writhed and screeched. With all the force he could muster he spun and tossed it against the wall. A horrible thud followed, the thing sticking to the wall for a moment before dropping to the floor.

Josh rushed to the door and turned on the lights. Sophia was sitting up with her knees pulled close to her chest and staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. Her body shook and her breath came in gasps. Grime matted her hair and spots of glistening fluid clung to her forehead and cheeks. Tiny red droplets trickled from what appeared to be a scratch on her neck.

"Josh?" she asked.

"I'm here," he replied. He went back over to her, sat down, and moved her hair aside. "Let me see that."

They were scratches, all right: a set of four to match the ones on his forearm and wrist. He licked his fingers and wiped the blood away. Sophia recoiled when he did so.

"What happened?" she asked.

Josh glanced at the wall, where a red and black smear the size of a watermelon stood out in the middle of the yellow paint. His eyes followed the mark downward until they rested on the perpetrator.

He slid off the bed and approached the dead thing. Wet, tan fur streaked with crimson covered its body. Fighting back his gag reflex, he grabbed what he assumed to be the back of its neck and turned the thing to face him.

It was a cat, though one in a horrendous state he'd only seen in movies. Deep sores filled with yellow pus covered the bare spots around its nose and mouth. The sores bubbled, the fluid inside squirting out even though its skull had been crushed upon impact with the wall. Its open eyes were clouded with black ash, making them look like a doll's eyes. The sliver of pupil couldn't be seen.

Josh swallowed hard and pried open its mouth. The teeth in front were oversized, brownish, and jagged. He ran his thumb over one. It felt like stone. Intrigued, he leaned in for a closer look, but pulled back with a cry of disgust. The mangy dead thing smelled like Hampton Wharf in the summer, only a hundred times worse.

He looked up at the window as a chilly breeze wafted in, making him shiver. He regretted having opened it, thinking the fresh air would cleanse them as they slept. The strange and frightening cat had obviously scaled the roof and climbed in, seeking shelter for the night. Josh peeked over his shoulder at its moldy corpse and shook his head.

After cleaning Sophia up and bandaging her wounds, Josh laid her back in bed. With his sister snug and silent, he marched down the hall and opened his parents' bedroom door. They were still asleep with the television blaring, as usual. His parents had certainly been exhausted by the end of their stressful day full of horrible news, and they were deep sleepers to begin with, which suited Josh just fine. He had no desire to explain things such as dead, mutant cats and bloodstained walls.

He went downstairs and washed his hands in the kitchen sink, scrubbing vigorously, cleaning his wounds. Next he grabbed a pair of oven mitts, a garbage bag, paper towels, and a bottle of Windex. After that, it was back upstairs to Sophia's room. He stuffed the cat into the garbage bag, then snuck back out and tossed the carcass in the trashcan by the side of the road. _Thank God garbage collection is tomorrow_ , he thought.

The next half-hour was spent cleaning up the nastiness in the bedroom. He scoured the wall and floor, using up most of a new roll of paper towels and scrubbing so hard that his elbow barked. When he finished depositing the red, dripping, and foul-smelling towels in the same trashcan as the cat, it was close to three-thirty in the morning.

Sophia's eyes were wide open when he re-entered her room, watching him as he removed his shoes. The somber expression never left her face. He nodded at her and then walked down the hall to the bathroom.

"You doing okay?" he asked upon returning from brushing his teeth.

"I guess so," his sister replied.

"Just close your eyes." He sat down beside her. "I'm right here, Rascal. I won't let anything happen to you."

She craned her neck and stared at him. Her drawn lips gave her face a grave quality. "You said that before we went to sleep."

Her disappointment disarmed him. He couldn't find anything to say. His stomach and throat twitched as if he were about to cry.

"But I still love you," said Sophia, a wry and sad smile crossing her lips.

Josh grinned. "Thanks."

They stretched out on the bed as before, with Josh wrapping his sister in his arms. A moment of silence followed, until Sophia said, "Oh, by the way, big brother—"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for killing the cat."

## CHAPTER 6

### WRATHCHILD

Magnified, the body in the tray revealed itself to be a cylinder lined with tiny hairs. The bottom consisted of a long, skinny thread, which looped around and connected in the middle, like a lasso or a teardrop on a string. This was all very interesting, but nothing when compared to the head. Its shape was that of a mushroom, and this mushroom enveloped a spiked ball twice the size of the body connected to it. Tiny hooks protruded from the mushroom, eighteen in total. They were perfectly symmetrical, like rays of light projecting from an animated sun.

This was equally the most amazing and threatening phenomenon Dr. Horace Struder had ever witnessed—a microbe flawlessly constructed to spread its wings in every way imaginable, a frightening illustration of perfection in an imperfect world.

Horace lifted his head, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes, his sinuses aching from the strain of staring at the microscope's six-inch viewing monitor for seemingly every moment over the past week. The buzz of the fluorescent lights burned into his inner ear and the tightness in his chest made it difficult to breathe.

The quitter in him wanted to give up, to go back to Cambridge where he belonged, and continue his treatments. _I cannot stop now_ , he told himself, and it was the truth. They needed him here. _This_ was where he belonged. There would be time to eradicate the poison coursing through his body later. He took the pencil out of his breast pocket, bent over his notepad, and wrote: " _The path we've chosen is the path we must follow_ ," before continuing his notes. __ He could almost see God in the words.

An hour later he had filled fourteen pages. He returned the pencil to its resting place and leaned against the table. His stomach rumbled and he licked his lips, wondering where he'd left his lunch. His eyes scanned the empty room and he suddenly felt very alone. Desks, chairs, empty cages, and research equipment were all he could see. He sympathized with these compliant pieces of furniture and dutiful, expensive machines. The truth, he realized, was that he had a lot in common with all those inanimate objects. They were all there for the same reasons: fill the void, answer the questions, complete the objective, and nothing more.

Horace grabbed his cane and limped across the tile floor. At the door to the adjacent lab, he peered through the window into the "Clean Room", which, in reality, was a place that was anything but. The woman inside looked like an astronaut from a fifties science fiction movie in her bright yellow biohazard suit. An air tube ran from the plate on her back up to the ceiling, where a sterilized oxygen mixture was being delivered. Cages filled with mice, guinea pigs, monkeys, and snakes encircled her. She lifted a syringe and, after luring one of the monkeys over to her, plunged the needle into the animal's hindquarters. It let loose a high-pitched squeal. The intrusive, pain-giving hands of the woman switched gears and became kind, petting the monkey's head to calm it down.

A smile came over Horace's lips. He loved watching his understudy work. It amazed him that they'd worked together for five years now—five years of labor-intensive and often demoralizing research—and yet still she demonstrated compassion while performing the most uncompassionate duties. Whereas he had felt himself grow cold over the last half of his sixty-three years, she still seemed to hold on to those precarious threads of humanity. He almost worshiped her for it, though worship wasn't quite the word for what he felt.

He pressed the button on the intercom. "Kelly, it's time for lunch."

His assistant turned and waved. Her features were unnaturally enhanced behind the Plexiglas face shield. She motioned to her nonexistent watch and twirled her finger, then stuck out her tongue. Horace laughed and his heart swelled. The brilliant young thing sure did make him proud, even with her goofiness. No, _worship_ wasn't the word at all.

The word he was looking for was _love_ , the love one might feel for a daughter.

•     •     •

"Where do we go from here, Doc?" asked Kelly between bites of her sandwich.

"I'm not sure," replied Horace, tapping his fork on the plastic bowl before him. His food—blackened chicken salad with ranch dressing—was virtually untouched. Two bites in and he already felt full. He cursed his stomach for its deceit.

"Hell," he continued, "I'm not sure if we even _started_ in the right place."

Kelly half-smiled back. The expression seemed odd. She had an unremarkable face, with smooth lines and vague features that made it difficult for those who didn't know the particulars of her life her to guess her age. He'd heard every presumption from eighteen to forty-five, though all in question would inevitably nod their heads in an _ah-ha_ when they discovered she was twenty-eight. Her eyes were the darkest of brown and so large that in the wrong lighting they appeared to be popping out of her head. These things weren't what gave Horace pause, however. These were usual. It was the smile, the one that only left her face during moments of extreme concentration, when her lips would become a thin line of puzzlement. Now, it was nowhere to be found. Not only that, but huge black circles puffed out around her eyes and she seemed paler than usual.

_It's the stress_ , he reasoned. _This much tension isn't good for her. It's not good for the soul. It's not good for_ me.

Horace leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard. He wanted more than anything to ask what was wrong, but they had more pressing matters at hand. He glanced at the grease board that hung against the wall opposite them. A map of the Americas had been stenciled onto it. A red splotch covered the area near the border between Central and South America, and then the red shot outward in every direction like veins, thick at first and thinning out once they reached the center of the United States and the cusp of Argentina. The thinning continued until there were nothing but stray tracers leading north into Canada and south into Peru. He thought the map resembled a lifeline, or perhaps the branches of a family tree. Both concepts made him shudder.

"So," he said after clearing his throat, "let's start with what we know. From the beginning."

Kelly coughed and glanced at the diagram, then at Horace. "Okay, you first."

He stood up and limped around the room. "The virus begins in the Yucatan Peninsula. Nicaragua, perhaps Honduras. It spreads through every country down there in a week. The incubation period seemed very small at the time, only seventy-two hours at most, which made containment seem possible—"

"But now we know that's not the case."

"That's right. The local authorities thought they had it quarantined. For two days there's nothing, and then cases start popping up in Mexico City. Then Panama, then Brazil, then Tijuana, and subsequently Texas." He paused and glanced at Kelly. "And why did this happen?"

"It happened because the virus has both a lysogenic and non-lysogenic cycle. It can lie dormant for weeks—maybe even months or years, for all we know—before the major symptoms of infection begin."

"Exactly. And yet that's not the most unusual thing."

"A bit of an understatement, Doc."

Horace stopped pacing and sat back down. He grabbed his notebook and flipped through the pages, reading its inventory like a grocery list. "Virus is of unknown origin. Initially believed to spread through the saliva and droppings of rats due to the population boom in the numerous deprived regions where it first appeared. Virus contains aspects of many major diseases currently on file. Like Retroviridae, it attacks the immune system, only instead of breaking it down, it can, in certain cases, actually enhance it. The body shape is pleomorphic, similar to those in the Filoviridae family—branched, u-shaped, or spherical. In some instances, much like Ebola and infections of similar origin, the vital organs are broken down and liquefied. The smooth upper shell resembles Herpesviridae. The spikes lining the surface of the head are consistent with most every form of Orthomyxoviridae on record."

Kelly picked up where he left off, without the assistance of notes. "Virus contains both RNA and DNA strands, which has never been seen before. Virus is zoonotic, and infects virtually every multi-celled organism the same way, attacking the cell nucleus, overtaking it, assimilating it, reproducing it. A triple coat of protein protects its genetic information and a thick lipid membrane surrounds that." She paused, and her face grew even more serious. The half-smile disappeared. "It is spread every way imaginable: through the air, through exchange of bodily fluids, through ingesting microscopic flecks of tissue. And so on and so forth. In other words, we know now what we knew two weeks ago. We can go over this again and again, Doc. But I think we're looking in the wrong place, from the wrong point of view."

"How so?"

"This disorder doesn't kill, Doc. At least not directly. In fact, from everything we've seen, it can _strengthen_ the host...‌with the exception of some unfortunate mental side-effects."

"Yes," he replied, "but that's the cost, isn't it? You have to take into account those 'unfortunate mental side-effects'. Those becoming ill are developing some sort of dementia, Kelly. Almost like schizophrenia. You know this. Not to mention the new cellular structure brought on by prolonged illness requires massive amounts of protein to stay viable. They're violent, and they kill without prejudice as a result. They become animals—though animals that can think their way around corners as well as we do. If that's not a direct link to mortality rate, I don't know _what_ is."

Kelly slammed her open palm on the table. "That's not the point, _Horace_!" she yelled. Horace shrank from the sound of her voice and her use of his first name. She'd only addressed him in that way one other time, during one of the religious arguments they were apt to have occasionally.

She took a deep breath, coughed into her hand, and continued. "The point _is_ , something this phenomenal can't be all bad. There has to be something useful that can come from this. We've been spending all this time trying to find a cure, but it's gotten us nowhere. It doesn't respond to any vaccines we currently have at our disposal, as you well know. The alternative is to figure out how to _harness_ this thing, not eradicate it."

Horace reached across the table for her hand, but she pulled away before he could touch her. "You've seen firsthand what this ailment can do," he said. He lowered his eyelids and squinted through his glasses. "Why do you think Mark Carter named it what he did?"

" _Wrathchild_ ," she whispered.

"That's right. And how did he come about that title?"

Kelly's head dropped. "To reflect the rage its victims develop, the unhinged aggression they display."

"Exactly. And then two days after we talked on the phone, Mark was killed. He was my friend, Kelly, the most brilliant scientist I've ever collaborated with. As I've told you, he said this would end civilization as we know it, and Mark was not one prone to hyperbole. If _he_ didn't think it was possible to channel it into something useful, then why should we?"

Kelly's eyes welled with tears. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

"What's wrong?" asked Horace.

Before she could answer, the door flew open and slammed against the wall. Two armed soldiers barged in. Horace jumped. His heart skipped a beat.

"Dr. Struder," one of the soldiers said, his voice shaking with tension. "You better come with us."

•     •     •

They were led into the service elevator, which brought them down, floor after floor, until they reached the basement level. The short journey seemed to take forever. _This place seemed so much smaller when I went to school here_ , thought Horace. _Has Johns Hopkins really gotten that much bigger in just forty years?_

When the lift stopped, Horace and Kelly followed the nervously bustling soldiers down a long, darkened corridor. They approached an area that had been a storeroom only three weeks ago. Through necessity, the space had been altered. No boxes of paper or surplus medical equipment sat collecting dust any longer. It had become a transitory morgue; the only residents were the covered and vaguely human forms, pushed together on barely adequate gurneys. Horace thought of Mark Carter and those menacing last words again. " _The end of civilization as we know it."_ Even something as mundane as a university basement wasn't immune.

An older man wearing pressed fatigues with two stars adorning his shoulder awaited them in front of the large window that had been installed two weeks before. The man nodded at Horace, who returned the gesture in kind. This man's name was Major Franks, appointed head of Johns Hopkins security once the government took over all aspects of _Wrathchild_ research. Despite the cordiality, Horace couldn't shake the feeling of disgust that came over him while in the Major's company. If men were placed on a physical spectrum separating intelligence, belief, and loyalty, he and Franks would stand on opposing poles. Horace didn't like him one bit.

"Hello, Struder," said Franks. His voice reeked of disdain.

"Major," Horace replied. "What's going on here?"

Franks tilted his head and squinted those beady brown eyes of his, eyes that seemed much too small for his gargantuan head. "I think you should see for yourself," he said, and stepped away from the window.

Horace glanced at Kelly and shrugged. The two of them drew closer to the glass.

The first thing he noticed was the red. It cascaded down the walls and dripped from the ceiling. Next was the body, dressed in blue hospital scrubs, lying in the center of the room—the source of the red, to be sure, for it rested in a shimmering lake of the stuff. Blood still spouted from the stump where its head used to be. Horace drew in a deep breath and gulped down the bile that began to sting the back of his throat. His eyes started to water, but still he looked on.

The gurneys had previously been positioned in neat rows, but were now scattered about. Some still stood, albeit askew on bent legs, while others had been overturned. He then caught a glimpse of five human figures. These forms staggered about on the outskirts of the room, bathed in shadows, almost out of view. They moved children learning how to walk, using the walls for support. The one closest to him stepped into the light. It was a man. A deep gash ran from his right ear, straight across his neck and chest, and ended at his left shoulder. With each tremulous step he took, the wound opened wider, revealing the windpipe and ribcage, and then closed again, like a mouth. His eyes were open yet empty, staring off into space. The corners of his mouth drooped. Spittle, blood, and yellow mucus leaked over his lips. Horace hiccupped and turned away, covering his mouth as the foul taste of bile slithered over his tongue again.

"What...‌the _hell_...‌is this?" he grunted.

Major Franks stepped behind him. Horace could hear the scoffing of his voice. "I was hoping _you_ would tell _me_ , Struder."

Horace shook his head. "I've never...‌who _are_ these people?"

"We received a shipment of bodies for quarantine last night. A bunch of poor souls who were killed at a truck stop near Bethesda." Franks paused and pointed inside. "Well, there they are. They were like this when Private McCartney came down here looking for the orderly on duty, who hadn't reported to us as scheduled." A humorless chuckle shook his throat as he pointed toward the headless body in the center of the room. "I guess we can see why."

Horace felt sick. "I'm glad you find this amusing, Major."

"Why _shouldn't_ I? These folks were dead as a fucking doornail when they arrived, in fucking body bags no less. But look at 'em now. Doesn't make sense to me. This isn't something you see in real life. So _yeah_ , I find it just a little bit funny."

Horace stormed away from the window, wanting to get as far away from the gruesome scene as he could. His heart rate quickened and for a moment he felt his lungs seize up. Major Franks followed him step for step, and when he attempted to walk back into the hallway, the Major blocked him.

"You're not going _anywhere_ ," said the Major, his eyebrows becoming v-shaped. "Pendergrass put me here to keep everyone safe. _Your_ duty is find answers. I've done _my_ job. I haven't seen shit out of you."

"It's not that easy," said Horace, loudly. "Do you know how much research goes into deciphering events such as these?" He waved his hand at the window. "I've never seen this before. What, do you expect me to just snap my fingers and understand what's happening? These things take time, dammit! I can't form an accurate analysis without knowing all the facts!"

"So humor me. Give me your best guess."

Horace sighed, wracking his tired brain for information. "Fine. Rumors circulated a few weeks ago that _Wrathchild_ contained...‌regenerative properties. This anecdote was passed on by some tribal medicine man in Guatemala. Lance Trenton, one of my old colleagues, only listened to him because he was at his wit's end. I didn't believe it, but Lance bought into the theory. Then we lost contact with the field units. That was ten days ago. There's been nothing since to corroborate the rumors, so I took the report as the act of a desperate man reaching toward superstition to make sense of the nonsensical, as has happened all throughout human history. I haven't heard a word about it since."

"And yet there they are," said Franks, "as real as could be."

Horace shook his head. "No. This can't be right. It flies in the face of everything we've ever known about the workings of the natural world. I refuse to believe it until I can get these people sedated and get tissue samples under a microscope."

"Why the fuck do you think I brought you down here, Struder?" insisted the Major. His face twisted into a snarl. "Take some of my boys, get in there, and do what you were brought here to do!"

"Uh, sir?" a tentative voice asked. One of the soldiers had walked up to them. He fidgeted on his feet, biting his lip.

"What?" shouted Franks.

"We have a...‌situation, sir."

Franks turned, and Horace followed suit. They were looking at the large window and those standing around it. It took him a moment to realize what had happened. There were only soldiers there now, their backs to him, faces pressed against the glass. A worried cramp tightened in his chest. He turned to the young man beside him.

"Where did she go?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, sir," the young soldier replied. "The woman grabbed Private Watson's gun off the wall and ran through the door before we could stop her."

•     •     •

Kelly locked the deadbolt, lifted the assault rifle to her shoulder, and took a cautious step forward. Her finger unlatched the safety and tapped the trigger as she gazed down the barrel. It had been years since she'd held a gun of any kind. _It's easy, honey. Relax your upper body, brace for the recoil, and squeeze._ For the first time since she was a little girl, she didn't curse the fact that her father had been a lifelong Navy officer.

Fists pounded the glass behind her. She pivoted on the balls of her feet. Gawking faces stared at her, Horace among them. He struck the pane, his mouth moving in the exaggerated manner that said he was shouting. Kelly could barely hear him, but she could imagine his words. _What are you doing? Get out of there right now!_ She shook her head and waved him off. "I know what I'm doing!" she yelled, though she only wished that were true.

It took all the effort she could muster to turn her back on her audience. She faced the bowels of the room and walked straight ahead, glancing down to avoid the puddles of blood on the floor, but never lost track of the phantoms populating the space with her. It seemed odd how they allowed her to move about freely, almost as if she didn't exist.

She approached one of them—a female, probably no more than eighteen years old. The girl leaned against the wall, her chest heaving. Her flesh had been eradicated from breast to bellybutton. The girl's mouth trembled while she stared at the ceiling with vacant eyes. She held the severed head of the dead orderly in her lap.

Holding back the onset of nausea, Kelly reached out a tentative hand and touched the girl's exposed breastbone. She felt the slickness of bare muscle and stretched tendons. The girl didn't respond to the contact—she just kept on staring. Her lips kept on moving.

Eventually, the girl turned. Her lifeless eyes glistened with a hint of vigor and her fingers wrapped around Kelly's forearm. Kelly lost her grip on the rifle and it clanked on the floor. She balled her fist and drew back, but something in the way the girl stared at her made her pause. Then, in a surprising action, the girl tossed aside the severed head, leaned forward, and wrapped her arms around Kelly's legs. She let out a rasping moan and rested her head on Kelly's stomach. Kelly caressed the forehead of the panting being that gripped her, not understanding why she would be drawn to do such a thing. The tendrils of the girl's hair were oily and knotted. Something wriggled between Kelly's fingers, a sensation that would normally cause her gag reflex to kick in. _Get your hands_ off _this thing_ , her mind screamed. _It's unnatural!_

Yet nothing had felt that natural—that _right_ —for quite some time.

A stream of insight poked away at Kelly's thoughts. She pried the girl off her thighs, letting her crumple in a mound against the wall again. She rolled up her sleeve. There, beneath a bandage of gauze and medical tape, was a wound, a pair of deep scratches given to her by one of the laboratory monkeys two days prior, just hours after she had injected the animal with a non-airborne strain of the virus they'd been trying so hard to understand. She hadn't told Horace of the incident, of how she'd been careless and misjudged the strength of her bio suit's material. She loved him in ways she never could love her own father, and didn't want him to feel the guilt that would surely follow when things went wrong. _Besides_ , she'd thought at the time, _it's always possible that I'm immune to infection._

She was wrong.

The sound of metal scratching against metal woke her up. As swiftly as she could she bent over, picked up the rifle, aimed it at the door, and fired off a single shot. The bullet struck the hinge, sending chips of iron and wood flying, and the scratching ceased.

Kelly wagged a finger at her spectators, blurring her vision so she couldn't see their expressions. "No one comes in!" she said. She knew her actions wouldn't hold them back for long. They'd come in to get her eventually, and she didn't think she could bring herself to actually fire on a living human being. She had to get to work.

Without another pause, she ran up to one of the walking dead. It was an older man, completely naked. She pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger. The slug pierced his chest. He staggered back, expressed no pain, and then steadied himself before continuing his mechanical, wall-assisted amble. Kelly grunted, aimed higher, and fired again. This time, the man's neck snapped to the rear as the back of his skull exploded. Grayish brain matter and blood splattered the wall. His legs shook and gave out. When his body hit the floor with a sickening, wet _thump_ , his arms and legs twitched for a moment before falling still.

Kelly made her way around the room. One after another, she brought the staggering monstrosities down. She cried while she did it, saying a silent prayer each time she pulled the trigger, until she finally arrived at the girl, who she'd saved for last. She still felt that strange connection, that intimacy, she'd experienced only minutes before. _I wonder what her name was_ , she thought. _Who did she love? Did she dream of being a doctor? An actress? Will anyone miss her when she's gone?_

"No," Kelly whispered, biting back against the tears. These were negligible questions that required no answers. None of it mattered any longer.

The girl fell. Kelly walked to the middle of the room, the reverberation from that last shot echoing in her ears. She looked around and saw that the six bodies, including the headless orderly, were all at rest, lying in pools of their own blood. Five of these had been done in by her own hand, and a sensation she could only recognize as pride came over her. She shuddered and tried to push the feeling away. There would be no pleasure taken from these sorts of actions. Not if _she_ had anything to say about it.

Very slowly, Kelly Macintosh turned. She squinted, trying to see through the light reflecting in her tear-filled eyes. There stood Horace, the man who would be her father and mentor. His expression seemed frozen in time—mouth agape, with eyes that seemingly stared without blinking. Kelly nodded.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, then swung the rifle around, wrapped her lips around the barrel, and fired one last time.

•     •     •

Horace slumped in his chair, phone pressed to his ear. The dial tone buzzed through the receiver, soon replaced by the high-pitched, beeping whine that told him he'd left the phone off the hook for too long. His fingers kept reaching toward the number pad, only to withdraw when suffocating grief made his throat constrict. His address book, spread open before him, taunted him with its indifferent black print. **Michael Silver—Director—CDC—Communicable Diseases Division**.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he cried softly. Kelly was gone. _Calm down_ , he told himself. _Do what you have to do._

"What is this?" a familiar, taunting voice asked. Horace spun in his chair to see Major Franks standing in the doorway, his arms folded over his chest.

"I was going to call Mike," replied Horace. He could barely hear his own voice. "He needs to know what's happening here."

"Hang up the phone and step away from the desk." The Major's voice was cold.

Horace flinched. "Why?"

"I just got off the line with Washington. We're to keep this new development under wraps until we know _exactly_ what's going on. That's final."

"No, we will not!" yelled Horace. He slammed his fist against the desk. "People have to know! They have to be warned!"

Franks shook his head in defiance. "No, they don't. People hear about this insanity and there'll be panic everywhere. We can't have that."

"You ignorant bastard. Do you realize what will happen if we don't go public?"

"I don't care," said Franks. "I have my orders, you have yours. People much better than us made this decision. We're going to stick to it."

"People like who?" grunted Horace.

"House Leader Steinberg."

"Him? And what kind of authority does _he_ have? I want to hear from the top, Major. Get the President on the phone. Or even Pendergrass, for that matter. I want to hear them—"

"Shut up, Horace." Major Franks walked into the room, his right arm dropping to his side. "Steinberg is in charge now. Per orders of the Chiefs of Staff."

"Forget that. I don't care. I'm calling Mike right now, and then I'm getting in touch with the press. You can't stop me."

Franks released the clasp on his holster, lifted his sidearm, and pointed it at him. His tone became rigid. "Don't tempt me. It wouldn't trouble me at all to end you where you sit."

Horace placed the receiver back in its cradle and hung his head. Using the desk for leverage he pushed himself up and grabbed his cane. As he walked past Franks into the corridor he didn't look up. In no way did he want to see the smug air of victory on the bastard's face.

"It's for the best," Franks said as he limped away. Horace could almost hear the laughter in his voice. "You'll see."

"You're all going to die," muttered Horace to the empty air, and with shame gripping his heart, he kept on walking.

## CHAPTER 7

### DEMONS

It was a quarter past midnight on a Monday, and Kyra found herself with very little company. Old Willy, one of the many town drunkards, was the only patron left in the bar. Bill and Meghan Tulowiski had finished their last beers and bolted almost two hours earlier, and that was it for the night. Three patrons since she began her shift wasn't exactly a recipe for great business.

She felt around in the tip jar and groaned. There were only three bills in there, along with some miscellaneous change. Add that to her four-dollar-an-hour wage, and what she didn't have were any reasons to keep the place open. It simply wasn't worth it.

She slapped her palms against her thighs and said, "Okay, Willie, time to go."

The old man got up off his stool with a sigh, rocking back and forth on wobbly legs. His eyes grew cloudy. Kyra circled from behind the bar and placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Whoa, watch it, big guy," she said. "You're gonna hurt yourself."

"Ah'm all right," he replied. "Gettin' my sea legs, is all."

Kyra frowned. "Yeah, right. Will you get home okay? It's a bit cold."

"Ah'll be fine," he slurred, and flashed a mostly toothless grin. "Ah'd be better if you came with me, though. I make for good company, if you know what I mean." His gaze dropped from her face. He reached out a clumsy hand and fumbled for her breasts. He found the left one and squeezed. Her flesh crawled beneath his grip.

Kyra slapped his hand away. He almost fell over when she did so. "Get out, Willie," she said. "Now."

She held the door open and shut it quickly when he stepped out, almost smacking him in the rear. The brief exposure to the frigid cold—the warm spell had gone away much too quickly—caused her fingers to grow numb, which made entering the alarm system's security code more of a task than usual. When she finally completed it, and the speaker beside the keypad gave her the usual three tweets of acceptance, she peered through the huge front window. There was Willie, walking across the parking lot, swaying. His breath, illuminated by the street lamps, formed a glowing white cloud around his head of oily, silver hair. She thought he resembled the abominable snowman, and her hands, which had been growing warmer while stuffed in her pockets, ached again. Shivering, she lowered the blinds, cutting herself off from the outside world. Winter was right around the corner, and it was only the middle of October. She wished it would take its time.

She took her pocketbook out from behind the counter and pulled up a stool. Her chores were done for the night. She had wiped the bar, swept, and washed what few glasses had been used after the Tulowiskis left, which meant the only thing left to do was dispose of Willie's empty bottle of Budweiser, which was a quick enough task. She decided it could wait and sat down on one stool, put her feet up on another, and removed the trashy romance novel she'd been reading from her bag. _You'd probably be more comfortable at home_ , her sensible inner voice told her as she opened the book. She knew that wasn't the case, for she had started to feel shaky in that house ever since the night Justin hit her, since the night her mind annulled their marriage. His actions had poisoned the place, made it inhospitable. Home wasn't home any longer. It was where the demons lived.

She read to forget about it. Her mind wandered as her eyes passed over the words on the pages. The story did its work on her, though whatever tale it was trying to tell became lost. A gentle, willowing tremor appeared in her abdomen and she felt a sudden longing. She closed her eyes and could almost feel a man's hands on her body. They were gentle yet strong, these hands, a little dry, and yet soft in all the right ways. It had been weeks since she'd felt any sort of intimacy, and she missed it. Sex was her security blanket. It wrapped her in the virile clinch of animal passion and helped her forget all that had gone wrong in her life. There was no need for love; the escape, the gratuitous pleasure, was all she required, all she _desired_. She imagined the face of this invisible man who now rubbed her back. It was a kind face, with intense brown eyes and a charming smile. Almost instinctively, her hand pressed into the waistband of her jeans. Her fingers tickled the hairs _down there_ , and the vulnerable cleft found just beneath that. Her teeth chattered. Her body shuddered.

The harsh ringing of the telephone pushed all those pleasurable sensations away. She jumped and let it ring a few more times before picking up.

"The Pit Bar and Grille," she said.

"Kye, is that you?" a familiar voice on the other end asked.

She knew who it was immediately and started laughing. "Yeah, it's me, Stacy. Who _else_ would it be? It's not like anyone else works here."

"Thank God you're okay," replied Stacy, and Kyra cut the witty banter. The tone of her neighbor's voice said this wasn't a humorous social call.

"Why? What's the matter?"

A pause, then, "Have you seen the news?"

"No." The truth was that she hadn't so much as turned on the television since that public service announcement the night Justin fell ill.

"You'd better. Channel seven."

Kyra grabbed the remote from its resting place in the jar beside the register and powered up the set hanging above the bar. She pressed the buttons for the correct channel and turned up the volume. An unusually solemn-looking anchorwoman appeared. This was an unusual time of night for her to be on the air. Kyra mouthed the woman's usual greeting: " _This is Jill Scott, Channel Seven Eyewitness News, thank you_ so _much for joining us tonight."_ There were no such pleasantries on this evening, though, for Jill Scott's trademark smile was gone. Instead, she stared with wide eyes at the camera, her lips appearing unsteady, her voice was low and dire. Kyra picked up what she was saying mid-sentence.

"...‌urge anyone in the surrounding townships to lock their doors and stay inside. These people are to be considered dangerous and possibly armed." Jill Scott cleared her throat, glanced down as if to gather herself, then faced the camera again. It looked as if she would burst into tears at any moment. "I repeat," she said, "tragedy has struck the Wentworth-Douglass Hospital in Dover this evening. At approximately eleven-fifteen, State Police, responding to a 9-1-1 call placed from within the facility, arrived at the scene of a massacre. Preliminary reports say there are as many as seventeen fatalities. The specifics of this report are unclear, but a source inside the hospital has claimed these horrific actions were perpetrated by those under quarantine with CTP, or _Rodent Flu,_ as it is now known. The State Police have maintained that those responsible had fled by the time they arrived. Emergency workers from nearby hospitals are working closely with the remaining Wentworth-Douglass staff to tend to the injured. A remote camera crew has been dispatched from this station. We will disclose any and all information we receive as it becomes public. We will not go off the air until we have answers. Until then, we urge anyone in the surrounding..."

Kyra snapped off the television, as if doing so would make the news less real. She stood bone-still, staring with a slackened jaw at the now-black screen. Her heart jumped beneath her ribcage.

"Oh, shit," she muttered, then realized she was still holding the telephone to her ear, and said, "Stacy, are you still there?"

"Of course."

"This can't be right. There's no way."

"I know. It seems crazy. But..."

"No. Justin couldn't do that. Never."

"You also told me he'd never hit you. Look how _that_ turned out."

"Still..."

Stacy's tone became commanding. "It doesn't matter what you think, Kye. We don't know who's alive or dead, or even if Justin's involved. But the fact is that _someone just slaughtered seventeen people at the hospital!_ Which is what, a fifteen minute drive from where you are? You've gotta get the hell out of there."

Kyra nodded. "Okay. But the car's been acting a bit wonky—"

"Don't worry about the car. I sent Roger to get you. I don't want you alone when you leave. Just hang tight. He should be there in—oh _shit_ —in a couple of minutes."

"What happened? Are you okay, Stacy?"

Stacy sounded aggravated. "Sorry, Kye. Little Roger just fell off the bed. I'd better go take care of him."

"Oh."

"Don't worry, hun. Everything's gonna be okay. Just be careful, stay inside until Roger shows up, and I'll see you when you get here."

Kyra said goodbye and hung up the phone. She dashed to the front window, parted the blinds, and peeked out. With her heart racing and her mind a swirl of horrible thoughts, monsters lurked in every darkened corner, standing just beyond her view, preparing to strike.

She saw a dark shape darting across the side lot caught in her periphery, and when she jumped back with a yelp the blinds snapped shut. There she stood, holding her breath and shaking, and for a moment she was sure there was something behind her. She wheeled around. Nothing. Her heart rate started to slow and she approached the window again. Once more, she saw something move in the side lot. She turned toward it this time, letting her eyes adjust. It was nothing but a large tree branch, swaying in the wind.

Her fear quelled for the moment, she dimmed the lights and rechecked the locks and security system. Everything was buttoned up tight. Secure. She went back to the stool, put away her book, and placed a cigarette between her dry lips. Her hands were shaking, and when she flicked her lighter, its flame danced around the tip of the cigarette. When it finally caught she took a deep drag, letting the smoke fill her lungs. She sat there, puffed on the filter, and watched the clock hands tick away, second by agonizing second, until she could hardly stand it.

"Come on," she said. Her foot tapped against the stool's leg. She closed her eyes again and tried to send her mind back to that place of passion, that place where the horrors closing in on her couldn't intrude. It wasn't working. Spine-gripping anxiety was all she felt.

The sound of breaking glass, followed by the soft, humming _whoop-whoop_ of the alarm, seemed to prove her worry fitting. Her eyes popped open. "Roger?" she said, in little more than a whisper. She stood up, knees knocking, and glanced in the direction of the rear corridor. The thump of heavy footfalls came next. Kyra broke out of her frozen state, raced behind the bar, and ducked out of sight. Her lungs ached. She'd never exhaled her last drag.

"YOU!" a guttural voice boomed, though to call it an actual voice would be erroneous. It was more like a grunt, or a howl, that of an animal trying to _mimic_ , but not quite grasping, __ how humans speak.

Even with her hands weak and trembling with fear, Kyra managed to pull herself up and sneak a quick look over the counter. Though the space was dimly lit, she could see clearly. In the middle of the dance floor stood a man wearing a brown button-up coverall. The suit was too small and the buttons were askew. The man's shoulders arched forward, holding up a pair of huge, hairy arms. Splotches—she couldn't tell what color they were, only that they were _there—_ covered his exposed flesh. The veins in his neck knotted and stretched. His lower jaw protruded a good two inches farther than his upper, and the lips were bared, revealing a set of blackened teeth too large for the mouth that stowed them.

But it was the eyes that _really_ caused Kyra's heart to clench. They stared into the darkness beneath a bony, distended brow. She recognized them immediately, but there was none of the lethargy she'd grown used to over the years in them any longer. Now they flared, wider than ever. They were awake now, and they seethed with anger.

Justin turned toward her with unexpected speed. Kyra ducked away as fast as she could, hoping he hadn't seen her. Her answer came in the form of that god-awful mockery of her husband, screaming, "YOU!" once more. She breathed in deep and held it. The act of waiting for the inevitable was maddening. A part of her wanted to stand up and accept her fate right then and there.

_Don't you do that, Kye_ , the survivor in her protested. _Don't you dare._ She swallowed hard and managed to put her body in motion. She crawled around the cramped space, maneuvering around the coolers, feeling for something, _anything_ , to use as a weapon. Justin's inhuman snarling echoed all around her.

She reached behind the tubes that led to the beer spigots and her hand fell on something hard and plastic. What she pulled out was a screwdriver, most likely left behind and forgotten by Frankie the day before when he had replaced the Guinness keg. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

Kyra used her feet to push her rump across the sticky floor mat and wedge her torso between the cash register and the sink. She heard the heavy stomp-and-drag of Justin circling her balsawood prison. She craned her neck, trying to catch another glimpse of him as he moved toward and then away from her. She moaned, and then he replied.

The beast that had taken up residence in Justin Holcomb's body leapt onto the counter opposite her, landing with a _thud_. His forehead collided with the wine glasses and snifters, knocking them from their hangers above the counter. Glass broke at her feet and Kyra shrieked, pressing her hands against the solid mass of wood she'd sandwiched herself between. She kicked wildly, trying to get out. Her shoulders gradually slid free and she slipped onto her side. The creature growled in response. Kyra looked up.

Perched on the counter, with long arms ending in hands that were curled into claws, Justin looked more like a gargoyle than a man. An expression she presumed to be a grin stretched across his face. His oversized lower jaw opened and closed and his tongue licked spittle from the corner of his mouth.

"YOU!" he said once more.

Kyra stood up. The screwdriver in her right hand smacked against the night safe she was using for support. A loud clank followed, joining the din of Justin's breathing and the thunderous beat of her heart. She winced. Justin leaned forward. A string of drool dangled from his lower lip and then plopped to the floor.

Inch by painful inch, she shuffled her way to the bar's hinged countertop. The thing that Justin had become watched her with a voyeur's interest. He seemed to be taunting her with his lack of movement, as if saying that it didn't matter what she did; she'd come to the same end either way. This thought got Kyra's adrenaline pumping. Even though she knew it would be akin to a Chihuahua taking on a Doberman, she needed to act.

Her breath quickened while she switched the screwdriver to her left hand, reached into the box on the counter beside her, and pulled out an empty bottle of beer. Then, with all her gathered strength, she heaved it across the bar.

Before Justin could react the bottle smacked him on the side of the head, shattering on impact, gouging his flesh with shards of glass. He reached up with those clawed hands and swiped frantically at the stream of blood that now appeared on his left temple. His body teetered and his feet slipped out from under him. He tumbled to the floor, inside the server's area, only a few short feet away from her.

Kyra spun, flipped up the hinged countertop, and sprinted for the back door. _Go faster, go faster!_ her mind ordered. The door came into view. Without slowing she slammed into the handle, but it didn't give. Her arm crumpled into the door like an accordion, followed by her body. Her forehead clouted against the glass and bounced off of it. A brilliant white light shone in her vision.

She flopped on the ground, moaning in pain. Blood flowed into her eyes and her ears were ringing. She started to come around and glanced up. The window to the side of the locked rear door had been smashed in. There was glass all over the floor. That explained how Justin got in. It also would be her way _out._

A mighty howl broke through the alarm's beeping. Kyra swiveled and wiped the blood from her brow in time to see her deranged husband running at her, full speed. She held her hands out in front of her in self-defense. Justin crashed down right on top of her, pinning her down, and let loose a wounded yelp. He rolled off to the side, cuffing her on the side of her already wounded head with his flailing, ape-like arm. Free of his weight, she rolled in the opposite direction, thinking it only moments before he jumped on her again.

No one touched her and she spun around. She gaped at her deformed husband, watched him thrash for a moment, and then started to crawl away. Her left hand was still balled, and the carpet burned her knuckles when she pressed down. She looked at her fist and realized she still held the screwdriver firmly in her grip. It was covered with blood. Her _hand_ was covered in it, as well, all the way to her elbow. She instinctively tossed the screwdriver aside and it bounced off the carpet, skittering across the dance floor.

Justin's wailing stopped and his head whipped around. His eyes narrowed.

"Shit!"

She started crawling again, trying to scramble to her feet. The sound of shattering glass broke above the ruckus, this time from the _front_ of the bar. The image of Justin's murderous buddies from the hospital paying her a visit popped into her mind, and she tried to move faster.

A grasping hand wrapped around her ankle. She kicked out, trying to get free, but the grip was too strong and she was pulled in reverse. Her hands reached out, almost mechanically, grappling for something to hold onto.

Then, unexpectedly, her leg was free. She heard Justin growl, followed by a metallic _thump_. Another thump followed, and a screech, and another thump, louder this time. Kyra scampered toward the broken rear window again.

"Kye!" a man screamed. "Kye, go to the front! Hurry!"

She wheeled around. A large black man stood over her fallen attacker, a baseball bat raised high above his head. It was Roger. He brought the bat down onto Justin's back and her husband squealed beneath the blow, collapsing onto his stomach. Blood vomited from his mouth.

Roger waved his hand at her. "Go!" he screamed. He hit Justin one more time and then ran in her direction. Kyra's feet finally got the message. She stood up and stumbled, almost falling over, but Roger's strong hands caught her in time. She tried to keep running but found she didn't have to. Her neighbor's lifesaver of a husband wrapped his arms around her and carried her through the smashed front door as if she weighed nothing.

His car was outside, still running. He put her down and ran to the driver's side. "Get in, quick!" he said. Kyra yanked on the door handle, and after an anxious moment when it wouldn't budge, it flew open. She slid in as fast as she could and slammed the door behind her.

"Hold on," said Roger, much softer this time. Kyra stared at him in awe. He'd bitten his lip so hard that blood now dribbled over his chin, and the whites of his eyes glowed in the moonlight. He threw the shifter into drive and slammed his foot on the gas. The tires spun as the rear end fishtailed. When they gained traction, Roger cut the wheel hard and out into the street they went.

Kyra turned around and peeked over the headrest. The Pit grew small behind them. A hunched figure emerged from the building and dashed into the middle of the road, standing there and staring at them, until Roger took a left at the next street and it all went away. That would be the last time Kyra ever laid eyes on her husband of twenty-two years.

"What the hell just happened?" asked Roger.

Kyra couldn't answer. She didn't know how.

## CHAPTER 8

### THE GATHERING

The sun awoke from its slumber, bathing the landscape with the morning's first light. The air was still and the birds, which had already embarked on their annual trek to warmer climates, were nowhere to be found. The houses were still dark. This domineering silence should have been peaceful. Instead it felt like a warning, a harbinger of the coming emptiness, echoing in the barrenness of his soul. He couldn't remember his name, never mind what had brought him to this strange place, but somehow that was all right.

The rumble of approaching thunder shook the ground. He ducked behind a row of bushes bordering the sidewalk and waited. Peering between the branches, he watched a motorcade of large vehicles crawl down the road. Their tops were made of a canvas-like material, painted green and brown, fluttering in the wind. They passed by, one by one, and he could see the figures of those who sat in the rear of these vehicles: men dressed in fatigues, with helmets on their heads and automatic weapons nestled in their arms. The faces of these men were twisted masks of uncertainty, and he understood, somewhere deep down, that these were no more than children. They would be easy prey, and after he was done with them he could use their weapons to further his violent rage.

He shook his head, not understanding why he felt this way. Anger brewed deep within him, the desire to rip, to flail, to eat. _Where did this come from?_ he thought. The answer came in the form of a liquid churning in his stomach. It upset him and he panicked. _Soon_ , an alien voice sang, easing his anxiety.

_Soon._

The cavalcade turned down the next street and disappeared around the corner. He stood up and an object fell from his pocket. _That's my wallet_ , he thought. He paused, wondering how he knew such things. Curiosity ensnared him. He picked it up.

His fingers worked with a mind of their own, rifling through the wallet's contents. He could identify each item. _Credit card... ‌five-dollar bill...‌business card for an accountant...‌access key for work...‌my license. _At this last one he paused. A familiar face stared at him from a small, fuzzy picture. _Justin P. Holcomb_ , the plastic rectangle proclaimed.

_That's me._

A smile stretched across his misshapen mouth. He continued his search, pulling out small pieces of paper with strange numbers written on them and another wad of paper money. All this he tossed to the ground. He undid a metal clasp and opened the compartment that hid a picture protected by a clear plastic sheet. A pair of green eyes stared up at him, mocking in their indifference. Light red hair draped over narrow shoulders. She sat sideways on a stool, exposing the curvature of her seductive body. Memories came rushing back to him, and anger, like gasoline, fueled his inner fire.

He placed a clawed hand on the dark stain that spread across his stomach, a physical reminder of what she'd done to him. He stuck a finger through the tear in his shirt and felt the seeping hole beneath. The wound stung to the touch but still he probed his finger in deeper, elating in the pain as he violated himself. Blood poured over his hand and sopped the waistline of his pants. He withdrew the finger and brought it to his lips, licking the salty, life-giving liquid from his flesh. It coated his tongue and dribbled down his throat. His objective became clear. He breathed in and threw his head back, prepared to scream at the newly lightening sky.

_Not now_ , the alien voice demanded.

He exhaled, obedient as a puppy. He would wait. He had to. It was his purpose. The thoughts of the woman ( _my wife_ ) slowly faded away until no concept remained but _movement_ and _sustenance._ He maneuvered toward the woods behind one of the houses and then stopped when a door opened. He hid behind the corner of the house and waited.

A tall woman wearing a parka appeared. Trailing behind her was a young girl with short brown hair, a pink backpack slung over her shoulders. They walked toward the green car parked in the driveway. Their expressions were drawn back and dismayed, glancing up and down the road as if waiting for an excuse to bolt back to the safety of the _indoors_. They never looked behind them.

The yearning in his stomach spurred him into action. The older woman opened the trunk and the little girl tossed her backpack in. He inched forward, silent as possible, and then jumped. The girl screamed, her hair ensnared in his firm grip. He bit down on her cheek, lower teeth on the back of her ear, and ripped. The older woman ( _it's her_ mother, _her_ mother!) screamed, as well, and he felt the blunt trauma of something hitting his back. He ignored the sensation. He'd deal with her afterwards.

The hunger couldn't wait any longer.

•     •     •

Darkness fell, and the shell of the being that had been Justin Holcomb found that he was not alone. He was on a dirt road, surrounded by his brethren. Some he recognized ( _is that Donny Kilpatrick? Elizabeth Harley? The Clarkson twins?_ ), but most he did not. None of that mattered. He was connected to them, that much he understood. They were all attached by an unseen lifeline.

Someone nudged him from behind. It was a young man, very familiar to him. He couldn't remember the man's name, but for some reason he felt this to be of no importance. _His name's Harry, you dipshit!_ shouted the waning remnants of his humanity. _What's wrong with you?_ He shook his head, trying to get the insect in his skull to stop buzzing. Eventually the voice grew silent. He looked up at the young man with the large forehead, hunched shoulders, and bleeding gums. They nodded to each other and walked on in silence.

A rundown barn that looked as if it would topple at any moment came into view, partially bathed in moonlight. They strode by the dilapidated structure and wandered into the field behind it. He glanced over his shoulder and the pest that was his humanity returned for a moment. _I know this place_ , he thought, _it's important somehow._ Then, as before, it was gone; pushed away by the new awareness growing inside him.

The sliver of moon offered only a glimpse of the trail they stomped across, but he didn't need to see to know the way. Something else guided him now, something inside, something outside, something _all-encompassing._ He trod over broken corn stalks and rolling mounds of dirt. He heard snaps and crackles as the others did the same. He didn't bother to look and see if they were keeping pace with him. He didn't need to.

His foot struck an exposed root and he tumbled, rolling over the hard mud, smacking his head on a rock. He sensed no pain or shame for this action on the surface, but somewhere deep inside the relic of Justin Holcomb cried out, knowing that in a life now past he would have felt humiliated.

His brothers and sisters were ahead of him now, so he dug his feet into the unyielding soil, hoisted his body upright, and followed them down a hill. They were approaching a stretch of forest separating one field from another. It was there that they stopped— _all_ of them. He felt his muscles relax, and euphoria followed. His senses were soaked in dull flashes of red and black. There were nothing abnormal about the sensation, for it felt as if nothing else in the world, save this very moment, made sense. He closed his eyes.

A being, a living force of nature, walked amongst them. He could hear the master's heavy, exacting footsteps. A sweet murmur filled his ears from the inside out, a hundred voices, maybe a thousand, perhaps a million, all singing the same refrain. _Our father, our master, our destiny, our love._ For a moment he thought he'd never experienced a sensation so wonderful, so complete. The intruder in his mind silenced such thoughts.

A hand fell on his shoulder and all physical stimuli melted away. It was replaced by emotion, a sentiment of hatred and violence. He felt like a living, swirling ball of flame. The burning grew stronger with each passing second as an imaginary soldering iron razed the symbols of a lost language onto his new consciousness. He opened his eyes and glanced up. He understood his duty. He understood how the world worked. He understood what he must do.

The shadowy figure standing above him, the master, its hand still held firm on his shoulder, nodded. Its eyes glowed brilliant yellow, like solar flares licking out from the sun. Awe overtook him. He began to sob; heavy, violent tears flowed from his ducts. The hand stroked the back of his neck. His father, his destiny, his love, his master, spoke.

"Soon."

## CHAPTER 9

### FAMILY

The first explosion occurred at ten o'clock in the morning on Wednesday.

Josh was sitting in the manager's office at J&P diagnostics at time, arguing with his boss, Rick Colden, about whether he deserved back pay for the days the warehouse had been shut down over the previous two weeks.

The rafters shook with the impact of the blast, tipping over the jar on Rick's desk and spilling his collection of pens and pencils onto the floor. The two men fell silent and stared at each other from across the desk. The fire alarm went off, and the other employees in the building ran past the office door, heading for the exit.

Rick's phone rang and he answered it, fumbling with the receiver. Josh heard a frantic voice shrieking on the other end of the line. Rick listened to the voice while his eyes stared blankly at the wall. His body then slumped and the phone slipped out of his hand, from which it hung like a pendulum, the cord still wrapped between his fingers.

A second explosion knocked a framed Salvador Dali print—an item Rick displayed, Josh supposed, in an attempt to convey how deep and esoteric he could be beneath his hardened, corporate exterior—off the wall. The room seemed to grow hot and Rick's cheeks became flushed. Josh didn't need another warning. He bolted out of his chair and made a mad dash down the corridor, leaving his catatonic boss behind.

He wasn't prepared for what he saw once he burst through the front door and entered the parking lot. To the west, above the trees, rose two giant pillars of black smoke. Sirens wailed in the distance. The rapid _pop-pop-pop_ of what sounded like fireworks filled the air. The few people who hadn't already fled the lot tried to wedge their vehicles, two at a time, though the exit. Two cars collided, metal scraped against metal. A Dodge pickup rammed through the gate, knocking it over. A man leaned on his horn and screamed at another man, who stepped out of his car and thrust his fist through the window of the screamer. His knuckles bloodied the other man's nose. It was chaos.

Josh's muscles seized up and he breathed in short, hurried bursts. His only thoughts in that moment were of his family. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders and tried to remember where they would be at that very moment.

_Dad stayed home sick_ , he thought. _Mom has a hairdresser's appointment at noon, so she'll be home, too. And Sophia..._

"Oh, shit."

He looked again at the massive black columns. It appeared as if they'd sprung up from the center of town, and Dover Middle School sat right on the cusp, only a half-mile from the the rising smoke. Without further hesitation he ran to his car, fumbled in his pocket for the keys, and threw himself into the driver's seat. As other automobiles burned rubber and headed for the highway, he aimed his in the opposite direction and raced directly into the maelstrom.

Dover had become a war zone. The pop of gunfire, which Josh had mistaken for fireworks, grew louder. People ran frenziedly from their homes, crowding the sidewalks like the Pied Piper's harried rats. Oncoming drivers, clearly acting out of self-preservation, maneuvered their vehicles without care for those around them. They swerved in and out of their lanes, driving faster still. One large SUV plowed into a teenage boy. The driver never stopped. Josh saw this from the corner of his eye and quickly snapped his vision back to the road. He had no desire to watch the gruesome aftermath. Perhaps the kid had been thrown to the side, or maybe he'd gotten wedged beneath the vehicle and been dragged a few hundred feet, leaving behind a winding trail of scarlet. The thought made him gag.

_Don't do that,_ he told his overactive imagination. _Focus on the road._

When he turned onto Main Street, a platoon of soldiers dashed across his vision. He'd noticed groups of them gathered in front of Town Hall on his way to work that morning and the morning before, and he'd stopped to join a throng of onlookers. They were one of many small companies of Army Reservists, he'd been told, sent to the larger towns in the state to quell any fears that the municipalities may have had regarding the steadily progressing hostility from the south. _There's nothing to worry about_ , the commanding officer had notified the gathered crowd. _Nothing will happen here. We have everything under control._

He'd been wrong.

In front of the art supply store the soldiers fired their weapons into a horde of people as Josh sped by. Those on the receiving end of the onslaught looked like everyday folks, dressed in everyday clothes, living everyday lives, just like him. He slammed on the brakes and rolled down the window, ready to scream at the soldiers to stop without once thinking of the possible repercussions.

That's when he noticed the faces in the crowd. They were twisted and deranged, with lips curled like rabid dogs. Their teeth appeared filed to daggers; their eyes were wild and bloodshot. One of them—a woman he recognized from his nights at The Pit but whose name he couldn't remember—carried a severed head in her hands. She ran at the wall of soldiers and flung the head at them. Blood streamed from the stump of its neck as it struck one of the Reservists, causing the poor guy to lose his balance and fall. More from the crowd rushed forward and engulfed him.

"Oh, fuck," muttered Josh. He floored the gas pedal and took off again, hoping to leave the scene behind him. A moment later two frightened soldiers jumped into the road and threw their hands up. Josh veered around them and onto the sidewalk without missing a beat. His beat-up old Bonneville rocked on its struts as it scaled the curb. The car bottomed out and Josh winced as his muffler was ripped away, clanking across the road behind him. The inside of the car was suddenly filled with the deafening boom of air rushing through the now-departed exhaust system. Fumes filled the compartment, making him choke, but he couldn't stop. There was only a mile to go.

A blaze of white light flashed to his left, followed by another thunderous detonation. The windshield blew inward. Josh squeezed his eyes shut, let go of the steering wheel, and shielded his face with his arms. It felt like gravity ceased to exist. The car spun sideways on an invisible axis and came to an abrupt, crunching halt. The roof caved in and Josh slid from his seat. His knees caught the steering wheel, stopping his fall. Black dots filled his vision and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. His knees slipped free and he dropped, his back landing on the hard combination of felt and aluminum. Pain shot up his spine. Everything else fell silent.

When his vision came back, Josh glanced about him. He lay on the interior of the roof, only inches from a jutting wedge of jagged metal. The side windows were smashed and he found himself level with the asphalt. _I flipped over_ , he realized. He glanced at the dangling seatbelt above him, thought of how difficult it would have been to undo the clasp while suspended there, and felt thankful he'd forgotten to strap in.

He inched forward on his elbows through the side window. Once free, he stood up and looked around to reorient himself. The park was to his left, a shopping plaza to his right, and behind him he could hear people running. Scared to look, he fled toward the plaza.

Bullets exploded from all sides. He threw open the door of Mike's Discount Tobacco just as a projectile whizzed by his head, striking the wall. Chunks of brick and mortar stung his face. He collapsed to the ground and crawled into the shop while more bullets pummeled the merchandise around him, creating raindrops of paper and loose tobacco. On hands and knees he shuffled down an aisle of assorted smoke stuffs until he reached the rear of the store, where he hid behind the checkout counter. Once there, he had to throw his hand over his mouth to keep from screaming.

The clerk was slumped against the wall opposite the register, his head resting at an awkward angle. Chunks of hair-covered flesh clung to the red-stained wallpaper above him. The left side of his face had been reduced to glistening hamburger from the top of his lip on up. The eye on that side hung from a gummy thread. The half still intact stared straight ahead, the unharmed right eye opened wide in apparent surprise.

Josh scooted his rear end across the floor and scampered away from the corpse as fast as he could. He tried to think of something— _anything_ —to get the image out of his head, to keep the fear from paralyzing him, and it was Sophia's face that did it. He saw her, scared and alone, amidst the clamor of hostile gunfire. With this image in mind he twisted like an acrobat, popped to his feet, and dashed into the store's back room. Past stacked boxes of cigarettes he flew, knocking them over in the process and not caring one bit. He reached the back door, marked with an ' **Emergency Exit Only'** sign, and shoved through it. The fire alarm blared, but to him it was just another addition to the convoy of frightening clatter, like the sounds of people rummaging through the store as he left it behind. He tore into the surrounding woods, hoping those inside wouldn't follow him.

Joshua Benoit ran like he had never run before. His lungs burned with each thrusting stride ( _I have to quit smoking_ , he thought) and briars ripped at his clothes, opening tiny cuts on his arms, shoulders, chest, and thighs. Through patches of trees and backyards he sped, strangely conscious of the toll on his body. He formed a mental contract as he ran. _I promise I'll exercise more... ‌maybe start jogging...‌cut down on fast food._ It helped to keep him focused.

He jumped over a hedge and a stranded, rusty tricycle, ducked under a clothesline, and wedged his way between a pair of discarded ice-fishing huts. Shouts rose above the pounding of his heart, sounding much too close. He dropped flat on the ground and rolled beneath a fallen evergreen, using the branches to shield him from view. It didn't matter who those pursuing him were—friend or foe, they would only impede his progress. He watched as four pairs of booted feet rushed past his hiding spot. His anxiety played games with his psyche, showing him horrific scenes of what was, right then, happening to his loved ones. He counted to five, emerged from beneath the tree, and took off again.

Five minutes later, Dover Middle School came into view. He scaled the fence and dropped down on the other side. There was no one around, giving him time to stop and gather his thoughts. He faced the rear of the building, a hill and three athletic fields standing between him and the back entrance. That was a _lot_ of open space.

After swallowing hard he made his move, dashing down the incline and into the open. The ruckus of combat could still be heard, as more explosions and the report of gunfire echoed through the valley. He crossed the baseball diamond, his head on a swivel. Something caught his eye, an object resting against a bench, hidden behind the tall mesh fence that served as the visiting dugout. Josh stopped his legs from moving, but his forward momentum kept going. His feet slipped on the damp grass and sent him down on the seat of his pants. When he stopped sliding he froze, used one hand to support his weight, and stared at the dark lump. He counted to ten. When the object didn't move, he got to his feet and, staying low, inched his way toward it.

The unknown thing turned out to be a dead soldier. He looked young, too young to be put in command of the intimidating weapon in his lap. He was dark-haired with brown skin, and had blank eyes that stared straight ahead. Dried tears formed twisting valleys of sorrow on his dirt-caked face. Blood covered his clothes from his chest down. The folds of his uniform concealed the wound that brought about his untimely end, and Josh had no desire to see it up close. Instead he seized the automatic rifle in his lap and ripped it free. The body collapsed as its weight shifted and Josh jumped, almost taking another header.

He was off to the races again, this time with a weapon slung over his shoulder. This fact brought him no solace, even as shots rang out around him. He crossed the football and soccer fields, each yard that stretched out before him seeming like a mile, until he finally reached the brick-and-concrete bunker that was Dover Middle School. He pulled on the door to the gym, fearing it would be locked, and uttered a relieved whimper when it opened with ease. He tiptoed into the place and swung the rifle from behind his back, holding it in both hands like a security blanket.

The inside of the school seemed much too quiet. The dull green paint job he remembered too well, combined with the fact the only light was that which came from the few windows, cast a ghostly aura around him. He exited the gym and entered the main hallway, where rows of lockers mocked him with their normalcy. He felt the urge to head into the basement, where he'd stolen quite a few moments to puff a cigarette when he attended school here, and hide. The thought of his sister brought him back to the moment.

"Hello?" he said in a hoarse voice. No one answered. It was as if he'd been sucked into a vacuum of sound, for even the near-constant echo of the events outside the thick walls seemed to fade.

The place looked so huge, so insurmountable. He glanced up at the hallway clock in amazement. It was only ten-thirty, half an hour after the first explosion had hit. He racked his brain for the information he needed, but nothing came to him.

"Twenty-seven," he finally mumbled. That was Sophia's homeroom number, on the second floor. He recalled his sister telling him how comforting it had been to have her first class take place in the same room where attendance was taken, how she always felt exhausted that early in the morning and liked not having to move after the bell for first period. She'd also told him about Mrs. Flannigan, her English teacher, and how nice she'd been. The idea was a long shot, because first period ended at a quarter to ten. He hoped beyond hope that the kids had retreated back to class instead of fleeing the school entirely when that first detonation hit.

He sped down the corridor. His fears were both quelled and intensified by the odd whispers that escaped beneath the closed classroom doors. _You don't know what's behind there_ , he thought, _so just focus on what you came here to do._ He reached the stairwell and bounded up the concrete steps, avoiding the sixth one. That was the one with the hole in it. That he knew this tidbit of knowledge amazed him. He hadn't entered the building in twelve years, and yet he remembered the little things, the quirks of the place, as if it were yesterday.

The second floor was just as quiet as the first. Josh quit running and advanced at a slow creep, his finger tapping the rifle's trigger. He hoped he didn't have to use the thing; he hadn't fired a weapon of any sort since his days as a Boy Scout. He wasn't sure if he'd even remember how.

At the door to room twenty-seven, he paused and pressed his ear to it. He heard a slight rummaging, coupled with the faint whisper of a seemingly androgynous voice. Swallowing his fear, he turned the knob and entered the room.

The faces of thirty terrified teenagers greeted him. They were hiding behind their desks, which had all been moved to the other side of the room in a sort of barricade. Some were trying to force their bodies into the cabinets beneath the rear bookshelves and not having much luck. Josh scanned each alarmed face that peered at him, many just eyes and the tops of heads that appeared above the desks' surfaces like prairie dogs peeking out of their burrows, on the lookout for predators.

"What...‌what do you want?" asked a voice to his left.

Josh yelped and spun around, lifting his weapon as he did. His finger squeezed the trigger out of reflex but it didn't budge. A woman in her early thirties stood before him, frozen as the barrel wobbled just inches from her forehead. Her body shook violently and her complexion grew pallid. Tears spilled down her cheeks and her mouth dropped open. Something about her face seemed familiar. She had brown hair, pulled back in a braid, a tiny nose, and ruddy cheeks. He dropped the weapon to his side as fast as he could. Blood rushed through the veins in his neck, making his temples throb. _Thank God the safety held._ He didn't want to think of what might've happened if it hadn't.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Flannigan," he whispered. He couldn't look at her.

After a long pause she said, "Who are you?"

Josh picked up his head. Mrs. Flannigan had righted herself, standing rigid with her hands clenched before her. It was a display of inner strength he found both amazing and recognizable. She dabbed the tears from her cheeks with a napkin and straightened her blouse. Her expression became cold, but not the type of cold that implied callousness. No, this was an appearance his mother had taken on many times in the past, a righteous posture brought about by carrying the obligation of being responsible for the safety and wellbeing of children. It suddenly didn't surprise him that he found her identifiable.

Josh cleared his throat. "I'm looking for my sister," he croaked. "I thought she might be here."

Mrs. Flannigan leveled her gaze. He swore he could feel invisible prods jabbing into his brain.

"What's her name?" she asked.

"Sophia Benoit," he replied. He flattened his hand and placed it beneath his chin. "About yea tall, wavy brown hair."

"Are you Joshua?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Flannigan turned away from him and walked across the room. With every other step she took, she would glance at the windows, as if she could see through the drawn blinds and into the bizarre world outside. She stopped in front of the cordon of desks and offered one last glimpse of suspicion in Josh's direction before leaning over and whispering something to those behind the barrier. Other than that, no one moved.

His only thought was _why isn't she coming out?_

"Honey," he heard the teacher say, her voice rising, "your brother's here."

A pale hand finally came into view, clutching the lip of the desk, the knuckles white as bone. The head came next, with that familiar hair matted by sweat. Her eyes followed, darting around the room until they met his. This caused Sophia's manner to slacken. The thinnest of smiles came across her lips.

He walked up as Mrs. Flannigan helped her climb over the barricade. Sophia trembled.

"She hasn't been feeling well today," said the teacher. He could see that. Not only was her hair plastered to her forehead despite the definite chill in the room, but she shivered as if in the throes of a fever, as well. He placed his palm on either side of her face and moved a slick wisp of hair from her cheek with his thumb, noticing the puffy red scratch marks the cat had given her. She was clammy, drawn out, and very, very pale. Dark circles ringed her eyes. Her bottom lip quivered.

Josh took her hand and guided her toward the door, walking away from the teacher and the rest of the students. Sophia followed him mechanically. He was afraid she might pass out, but he pushed that worry aside. His sister was alive. He'd agonize over her condition once he got her home.

"Where are we going?" asked Mrs. Flannigan. Josh turned to see the rest of Sophia's classmates rising from their hiding places.

"We?" he replied. Those uneasy jitters emerged again.

"Yes, _we_. All of us. You're taking all of us, correct?"

Josh cleared his throat. "Um, well, I wasn't really planning on it."

"What are _we_ supposed to do?"

His mind went blank. "I...‌I don't know."

"So you're just going to _leave_ us here?" The teacher's eyes tapered and her cheeks became even redder than before. "Can you at _least_ tell me what's going on outside? How bad is it? Have the rest of the students fled? Does the army have everything under control?"

Josh opened his mouth to answer but nothing came out. She spoke more words to him but none of what she said made any sense. It felt as if the cognitive part of his brain had sealed itself off from outside stimuli. Four letters were all he could comprehend.

H-O-M-E.

Without saying another word, he turned and hurried for the door, dragging Sophia behind him. Mrs. Flannigan burst into a livid rant as he fled, but to him it sounded murky, as if she existed in a dimension he could only distinguish through shadows. He imagined the looks on those faces he could no longer see, the faces of children frozen in fear, children he could save but chose not to. His heart pounded and guilt threatened to halt his forward progress. _What are you doing?_ his conscience scolded. _Those people_ — _those_ kids— _need your help!_

_Please go away_ , he pleaded. _I just want to get her home._

He ran down the hallway. At the top of the steps he paused and listened to the wounded cries of those he left behind. He glanced at Sophia, who stared straight ahead, her face a vacant mask. Josh swallowed hard, closed his ears to the sound, and swallowed his guilt with a mighty breath, then scooped his sister up in his arms and trundled down the steps.

"It's not my problem," he whispered.

•     •     •

On his way back across the athletic fields, Josh was disconcerted to see that the dead soldier had disappeared. He quickened his pace, helping a weakened Sophia over the fence and entering the woods.

The trees formed a living maze, making him the rat trapped in it, wondering if the next turn would wind up in a dead end. He carried Sophia over his shoulder while he scooted around trunks and briar thatches. Her weight was taxing. He stopped and put her down to gather his strength.

"Can you walk?" he asked, panting. She didn't respond. He gave in and picked her back up.

A steep embankment came next. It took dexterity he never knew he possessed to navigate the damp, slippery slope. His foot slid and he went down on one knee, somehow staying upright while balancing Sophia's dead weight. Mud ran up his pant leg, its cold slickness making him shiver. He wanted to stop right there, to throw up his hands, lay down for a minute and rest, but the bubbling of running water told him the journey would end soon. The stream, his beacon, was only a few feet away. If his recollection served him well, it was only a ten-minute jog to the promise of safety after that.

A tree had fallen over the stream years ago. In his younger days, he and Colin would spend hours running across the crude bridge's greasy surface, oftentimes temping fate by pushing themselves faster and faster until one of them fell in. With this memory fresh in his mind he used his boot-covered foot to test the log's stability. It rocked from side to side, decayed splinters of bark floating to the water below.

Josh moaned. His back was sore to the point of stiffness. He could scarcely hold Sophia up as it was. If he tried to perform a tightrope walk he'd fall in for sure. He shrugged the rifle off of his opposite shoulder to lighten the load. It fell into the brush. The burden didn't seem much different. He glanced up and down the stream's bank. There had to be another way around.

A twig snapped, followed by another. He slowly turned, the action made that much harder by Sophia's dead weight. Two figures approached from behind him. He saw them from a distance, one man and one woman, moving cautiously, their knees bent and bodies crouched like primates. They sniffed around with their noses pointed to the sky. Josh backed up, not taking his eyes off of them, and his left foot splashed into the stream. Icy water spilled into his boots. He yelped and the wandering pair brought their searching eyes to him. The male reared his head back and let loose a bellowing roar.

Josh immediately swiveled and began high-stepping it through the water. The stream was only twenty feet wide and reached mid-thigh at its deepest level. Freezing water nipped his flesh and seeped into his jeans. His testicles tensed up into throbbing little acorns as the water licked at them, causing his abdomen to constrict and pain to spurt down his legs. It was the most horrendous physical sensation he'd ever experienced.

He reached the other side and collapsed. Sophia toppled off of him and dropped into the mud, a single puff of air escaping her lips. Josh stooped on all fours and huffed. He was shaking all over. _Get up_ , he ordered his resisting muscles. _Get up now._ He scrambled to his feet and, grabbing Sophia beneath her armpits, he dragged her through the trees. He glanced behind him to see their pursuers standing at the water's edge, smacking the stream with their claw-like hands. They seemed unsure whether or not to enter the water at first, but then, after only a few seconds of delay, they plunged in.

"Shit!" exclaimed Josh. He swung Sophia up onto his shoulder once more and continued running.

The old fort his father had built when he was a child came into view a few moments later. It stood atop an old, dying oak tree whose limbs no longer held any leaves, even in the summer. The tree had captivated him as a child. As did his home. As did his family.

The latter two would be waiting just beyond the coming rise. All he had to do was get there.

He ran faster.

## CHAPTER 10

### THE OLD STONE CHURCH

Just outside of Dover, in the town of Newmarket, there was an old stone church. It sat atop a solitary hill called Zion, veiled by a forest of thick evergreens. The structure, erected in the mid-nineteenth century as a Universalist meetinghouse, stuck out amongst the modern homes of the surrounding neighborhood at the bottom of the rise. With its granite stones worn jagged and in some places stained green from moss, it seemed to be beaten-down, yet its sturdiness belied those appearances. Standing tall under the weight of years, the edifice stood as an American tribute to the possibility that man's influence could stand the test of time, even if the people who built it did not.

Its purpose had changed dramatically over the years. No religious services had been held in the massive cavern of an interior since the turn of the previous century. Instead, starting with the arrival of the Summer of Love, it became a musical mecca for the coastal New Hampshire youth. They still came en masse on these days as they had in those of worship past, crooning as one, only now it was the lyrics of popular songs they chanted instead of _glory-be-to-God._ Every Friday and Saturday night they would ascend the hill in droves, money in hand, anxious to spend the next few hours being bombarded into deafness while getting lost in the enthralling alternate reality of music.

Kyra sat alone in the choir loft, which was the only segment of the church that still bore signs of its original purpose. She watched the people below her mill about the open space. These were her neighbors, her fellow townsfolk, and they had come here for the same reason as she: to lay low, to hide, and to wait. The carnage that had shaken her awake earlier that morning seemed to be miles away. She could barely hear a trace of it through the thick, unyielding walls. The place made her feel secure, if only for a moment.

It had been two days since Roger's daring rescue at The Pit. He'd brought her to the house he and Stacy shared and, almost as soon as he was in the door, he began tossing pillows, blankets, canned goods, and formula for Little Roger into plastic garbage bags.

"What are you doing?" she remembered Stacy asking.

Roger had given his wife a look that could melt steel. "We're going to the Stone Church," he replied. He looked at his son, held firm in the bend of Stacy's arm, and added, "It's not safe here."

His words and actions proved prophetic. The morning's fireworks saw to that.

Kyra pulled the sleeping bag over her head, hoping the confines of her stitched cloth sanctuary would allow her to get some sleep. Rest had eluded her ever since that ill-fated night. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Justin's face—that twisted, revolting visage of her husband, bearing down on her with sharp teeth and clawed hands. She laughed in an attempt to cope. He had always been with her and, she supposed, he always would be. Even now, free of her mundane life with him, she couldn't get him out of her head.

As if to deny this thought, another man's face came to mind. This one was younger and full of introspection. She knew him well—as well as one who tended bar could ever know someone, that is—and remembered his words, spoken about himself in an answer to a question she asked, unintentionally offering insight into _her_ life, as well as his own.

_What choices do I regret the most?_ he'd said. _Why, the ones I didn't make._

She closed her eyes and let sleep finally take her. In her dreams, with this man at her side, she was finally at peace.

•     •     •

"Kye, are you awake?"

The face of her salvation melted away when she opened her eyes. The features of her dream lover, tender and strong, beautiful and intimidating, were replaced by Stacy's thin, clenched lips and flushed cheeks. The warmth in her loins dissolved; in her dream she'd been frolicking by the ocean with her lover, having mad, passionate sex while the waves crashed around them. That dream was gone now, and her happiness vanished along with it.

Stacy tapped her shoulder. "Kye?"

"I'm awake," Kyra replied. She grunted and sat up. Her bones ached. She felt old. "Why the _hell_ did you do that?"

"Sorry. The Army's here."

"Huh?"

"The Army. They're here."

Kyra frowned at her friend, inched toward the railing, and peered through the slats. A moment of shock washed over her. Before she came upstairs there had been twenty people in the Stone Church with them. Now it looked to be a hundred or more. And sure enough, mingling among the civilians was a group of soldiers, their fatigues caked with dirt and blood.

"Holy shit," Kyra whistled. "How long was I sleeping?"

"I don't know. Twelve hours, maybe."

"When did everyone get here?"

"A little bit ago. They just kept coming. It was weird."

Kyra raised her hand. Anger seeped in. Her heart rate quickened.

" _This_ bullshit is why you woke me up?"

Stacy looked like she wanted to cry. "No...‌it's just...‌I'm scared, Kye."

Guilt swept in and Kyra frowned. "Oh, shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean nothing by it. Hey, I'm scared, too, you know."

"I know, I know, but..." Stacy's voice faltered, "They're talking about going back out there...‌and Roger wants to go with them."

Stacy dropped her head in her hands and started crying. Kyra leaned into her friend and wrapped her arms around her, cursing her selfishness. Stacy had always been there for her when _she_ needed a shoulder. It killed her that she didn't immediately return the favor.

"It's okay," she said, patting Stacy's back. "I'm here. Let it all out."

When Stacy calmed down, Kyra brought her down the balcony stairs into the Stone Church's main chamber, leaving little Roger asleep in the loft. It had been years since she'd set foot in the place (she assumed it was the early eighties, when she came with her sister to see Black Flagg), and yet she still couldn't get over the heretical nature of it, a temple of worship transformed into a shrine of youthful excess. The stage where the altar should have been was littered with remnants of gaffer tape. Stacked amplifiers and a soundboard were in the spot where a tabernacle should be. The stained-glass windows were blacked out and posters of rock idols, from the Ramones to Green Day to Slipknot, had been plastered where the Stations of the Cross would hang. Though she'd never considered herself religious, she still couldn't help but think that God would be a tad disappointed if He knew how much His children regarded Him as an afterthought.

It didn't seem as cold down in the galley. She took Stacy's hand and led her to the edge of crowd. Her fellow church-dwellers were gathered in a half-circle, facing the stage, standing as firm as planks. They were spellbound by the man on that stage. Their body odor filled the air, and Kyra breathed though her mouth to avoid the smell, but it did no good. She could taste the sweat and stink of a hundred scared people as it slid over her tongue like stale cabbage.

The man's voice echoed through the chamber. Stacy started to break down again as he spoke. _I can't take care of her and do this, too_ , thought Kyra. She found an empty chair at the far edge of the assembly and sat the blubbering woman down in it.

"Stay here," she said. "I'll be right back."

Stacy nodded.

With her friend slouched in the corner, Kyra weaved her way into the congregation, squeezing through the mass of people as she remembered doing in her youth, her body sideways, shoulders hunched, head down, and never glancing up to say _excuse me_. In the synergy of the moment she could almost hear Henry Rollins screaming.

She reached the front of the pack and stopped, for the first time clearly seeing the man who held everyone's attention. He looked to be around her age, with dark brown eyes, salt-and-pepper hair shaved an inch off his scalp, and rigid cheekbones. Three gold bands adorned the patch on his shoulder. His uniform was pressed and still clean, unlike those worn by the other soldiers, who stared at him with reverence in their eyes. Spit flew from his lips as he addressed the crowd.

"That's all there is to it," he said, finishing up a speech Kyra hadn't made it in time to hear. "Kill or be killed. Simple as that. It's all up to you."

"Bullshit."

A collective gasp surged through the mob. Kyra recognized the voice and found a hint of comfort in its familiarity, like drinking a cup of warm milk and vodka in front of the fireplace on a cold winter night. She peered down the throng of denim and flannel, hoping to catch a glimpse of _he who dared contradict our leader._

She found him.

Standing on the other side of the crowd, with his skinny arms crossed over his equally thin chest, was a bespectacled young man whose brow was creased with anger. His normally pensive blue eyes blazed with intensity.

"Colin," she whispered. Over the years, he and two of his friends had come to call The Pit their home away from home. She recalled each of them clearly, a trio out of place in their surroundings, what with their kindness, sense of humor, and lack of hostility. The other two swam into her memory. She saw them as if they stood right in front of her—one very tall and gawky, with large features, the other more rounded and sensitive, yet still intense. It was this last face that clung to her, for it was the face of the man from her dream. If Colin was here then Josh Benoit, the young man she now realized had entered her dreams, wouldn't be far behind.

The man-in-charge brought her back to attention with his blaring tone. "What was _that?_ " he shouted.

"Bullshit," Colin repeated. "You're talking about suicide."

"Don't be a pussy, kid."

"Pussy? Don't you go telling me about pussy, there, fuckface. These ain't terrorists. I know the news said they were, but they ain't. Anyone with fucking _eyes_ can see that. Shit, bro, we all know what these things can do! My neighbor came at me this morning. He was one of _them_. I beat him over the head with a crowbar about fifteen fucking times, and the dude wouldn't go down!" He jabbed his thumb at the man standing beside him, a burly sort with a thick beard who seemed to wear the _Guns Don't Kill People_ t-shirt beneath his hunting jacket with pride. "Lucky for me," Colin continued, "that Denny here saw what was going down and blew the guy's head off. So don't question my manhood, _bro_. I'm not stupid."

The military man grinned. He turned and addressed the rest of the crowd. "You see, folks? These Wraiths _can_ be killed! They're no different than you or I."

"Wraiths?" scoffed Colin. "Cute. Real cute. But it don't matter what you call 'em. They're still fucking zombies, man. I've seen _Dawn of the Dead_."

One of the soldiers glanced at his commanding officer. "Now, General Stack?" he asked. The General nodded and the youngster disappeared through the back door.

"Our problem isn't zombies," Stack said. "What we're fighting is something else. These things are smart. They're driven and fast. They have an objective and they stick hard to it, like any good soldier. They used to be _us_ , for Christ's sake, and when they come hunting, they'll find us wherever we are. They're _that_ dedicated. No place is safe. We have to eradicate the whole lot of them. And I repeat, just so there's no confusion on the matter: a Wraith _is not a zombie._ "

The young soldier reappeared, pushing ahead of him a staggering, blood-soaked man. There was a chain attached to the collar around this man's neck. He wore nothing but his underwear, revealing flesh that was discolored and gashed. The crowd squealed in panic. Stack grinned and aimed his gaze at Colin.

"This, people," he said, "is a zombie."

The soldier let go of the chain and shoved the dead man in the back. He stumbled toward the stage and climbed the stairs on unsteady legs, his vacant eyes locked on the General. A thick, red excretion spilled from the corner of his mouth and oozed to his feet. He lunged when he reached the top, his movements slow and lumbering. His arms stretched out before him, grasping blindly, and his lower jaw sagged.

When the man was almost on top of him, Stack jerked a machete-like blade from the sheath on his hip and drove it upward, plunging it into the meat below the dead man's chin. The weapon's tip ejected through the top of his head with a gruesome pop. The man's dead eyes widened, but there didn't seem to be any pain in them, only blind shock. Stack yanked the blade free and the man's face imploded. A geyser of red liquid sprayed down his neck and covered his chest. He teetered on faltering legs and collapsed in a heap. The body was thrown into a mad spasm and then stopped moving. Blood flowed down the altar steps.

The young soldier who'd ushered the monster into the room handed the general a handkerchief. Stack wiped the knife and his hands clean. The soldier held out a plastic bag. Stack dropped the soiled handkerchief in, took a bottle of hand sanitizer from another soldier, and rubbed a glob of the liquid into his palms.

"We discovered this breed a few days ago," he said. His eyes never left his hands and his voice developed a soft tone, sounding almost contemplative. "From what I've been told, they're nothing but dead folk somehow brought back to life. Don't ask me how this happened. Shit, to be honest, I don't really care. All that matters to me is that we have nothing to fear from these things. Unlike the Wraiths, they're weak and stupid. Their only purpose is to eat. As long as you don't get overwhelmed by a bunch of them, you can dispatch them rather easily. Taking out the brain is all you've got to do." He chuckled. It was a humorless sound. "Then again, if you _do_ get cornered, you're pretty much fucked."

Kyra glanced at Colin. Even in the aftermath of the display, his irritated expression hadn't changed. He shook his head, turned around, and elbowed his way out of the assembly.

Another man stepped forward to take his place. It was Roger.

"What do we have to do?" he asked.

Stack's smile reappeared. "We have to protect ourselves. We have to protect _our country._ Small groups such as ours have popped up all over the nation, from the south, where the violence was at its worst, to Middle America, to right here in New England. We're forcing back the horde. We're showing these crazy fuckers that no one comes into the good 'ole US of A and messes with us. We're winning this war, people. My question to you is this: are you ready to be brave? Are you ready to fight for your freedom?"

A chorus of cheers erupted, drowning out the few disapproving mumbles. Kyra's gaze dropped to the floor. He'd never completed the triptych. ' _Are you ready to_ die _for your freedom?'_ would've been the next line. It didn't take a rocket scientist to understand that it was nothing but propaganda, a show. _He's lying_. _Every last part of it. Can't anyone else see that?_

A thought came to her. _Colin_ had __ seen through the bullshit. Unfortunately, he'd already left the congregation. She turned on her heels and pushed through the applauding crowd, heading for the front door.

The air outside was at least twenty degrees cooler than the confines of the Church. Goosebumps rose on her arms and her teeth chattered. She wished she'd had the presence of mind to bring a blanket with her.

Colin stood halfway down the concrete footpath, his back to her. Wisps of his thinning, dirty blonde hair fluttered in the breeze and his arms hung limp by his sides. His eyes were aimed at the sky. Kyra followed his gaze.

The horizon glowed with a brilliant pink. She paused, cocked her head, and listened. There was no more gunfire, no more rumbling explosions, and no more distant shrieks. A soft _hiss_ was all she could hear, like air whispered over the mouth of an empty bottle. It seemed as if the world had stopped moving.

"Wow," she murmured.

Colin turned around. He looked preoccupied, and when his eyes met hers they displayed not a hint of recognition. "Hey," he said. It sounded like a sigh.

She took a step in his direction. "Colin?"

"Yeah?"

"What's going on? Where are your friends?"

He squinted at the question, shook his head, and removed his glasses. He proceeded to rub his eyes, and then looked back at her. All pensiveness evaporated.

"Kye?" he said. "Oh, shit. Sorry. I'm kinda out of it."

She smiled. "It's okay. To be expected, I guess."

"I know. The world's falling apart." He aimed his middle finger at the Stone Church. "And the dumbasses are taking over."

Kyra nodded.

"But hey, we don't have to take orders. I know _I_ sure as hell ain't." He shook his head as if he'd forgotten something. "Oh, jeez. It's good to see you, Kye. I should've said that earlier."

A wave of cheerfulness eased the tension in her chest. It was as if having a somewhat normal conversation with a man who treated her like she was something special, someone whose company should be cherished, washed all the tension away.

"I don't mind," she replied. "Hell, I haven't been very together lately, either. It's like, every second I'm asking, _where do we go from here?_ "

"I know where _I'm_ going," said Colin. He pointed at the surrounding woods.

"Where's that?"

"I'm gonna chance it."

"Chance what?"

" _The Long Run_. Bobby's grandfather's farm is about five miles from here. We always said that if anything happened we'd all meet up there. You know, head for the mountains and rough it, _Red Dawn_ style." He laughed. "We always figured it'd be the Russians or the Chinese or something, though. We never would've imagined this. Well, on second thought, maybe _one_ of us might've."

"Are you sure it's safe?"

"Shit, Kye, I don't think anywhere's safe. But at least there ain't no gung-ho fuckers out there."

"So true, but..." she said, and then hesitated. The face of the man-child from her dream begged her to ask a question, but she didn't want to seem ungrateful. She didn't want Colin to think his company wasn't enough.

"Is," she said finally, "I mean...‌do you think you'll see...‌oh, shit, forget it."

Colin's expression shifted. His eyes glimmered, and he said, "Not sure, sexy. I haven't seen him. But I hope so."

Her heart picked up its pace. "Huh?"

"Josh. You wanna know if he's gonna be there."

She stepped back and bit her lip. "Uh..."

"C'mon, Kye," said Colin with a laugh. "You two've been giving each other the _want me_ eyes for years. I'm not stupid, but I still don't get why either of you didn't just go for it. So of _course_ I know. Why else would you follow me out here and start asking questions? I _know_ you've got friends of your own in there."

"It's not...‌sorry, I didn't want to imply...‌shit."

"Don't worry. No offense taken." His manner dipped, and he frowned. "To be honest, I'm really worried about the guy. I haven't seen him in a couple days. We've been friends since we were kids, you know."

"I know."

"I hope he's okay."

"So do I."

Colin glanced back at the trees, then at her. "I gotta get going. You want to come with?"

"No," she replied. "I should stay here. Like you said, I've got friends inside. I have to take care of them."

Colin bobbed his head. "I hear you on that one, sister."

He turned and his feet began to patter in a light jog. He stopped halfway down the walk and glanced back at her. "Kye?" he said. His features were made somber by the approaching darkness.

"Yes?"

"If Josh shows up, tell him where we are, okay? You know, just in case he forgot?"

"Will do," she answered, and then waved. Colin returned the gesture before twirling around and continuing his trot, heading across the parking lot until the blackness of the surrounding trees swallowed him. When his footfalls faded away, Kyra retreated back up the steps toward the cathedral doors.

With one hand on the lever, she fixed her eyes on the unnatural glow of the sky. Her spirits, soaring only moments before, plummeted. _I'm not gonna see him again, am I?_ The thought became certainty. _I'm not gonna see_ any _of them again._

"Good luck," she whispered, and walked back into the church.

## CHAPTER 11

### PENDERGRASS

Allison Steinberg was in the living room, sitting in an uncomfortable folding chair. She gently stroked the amber curls of the little girl who lay before her while a soft lullaby crooned from her lips. " _If I could talk to the animals, any animal, talk to any ape or chimpanzee._ " The little girl on the cot fell silent, nuzzling a stuffed bunny in her arms. Her eyes flittered shut and her chest rose and fell with each calm breath.

Allison gazed at those chipmunk cheeks and slightly parted lips. "Oh, Shelly," she whispered into the sleeping child's ear, "I love you, baby girl."

She stood up and exited the room, careful to not make a sound. The mid-afternoon sun seeped in through the cracks between the drawn shades and the windowsill, illuminating a hundred dancing specks of dust in its willowy shafts of light. Hunger pangs twisted her stomach in knots. She took no pleasure whatsoever in the thought of devouring yet another tray of frozen macaroni and cheese, but since her husband had neglected to stop at the grocery store before they arrived in this god-awful place, it would have to do. She glanced one more time at her daughter, shook her head, and went into the kitchen.

The loud _whoop-whoop-whoop_ of a low-flying helicopter shook the house. She covered her ears and peeked around the doorjamb. Shelly was still asleep. _I swear, if you wake her again, I'll... ‌_she thought, and then sighed. _I'll what? Scold them? There's nothing I can do._ She opened the freezer door and took out a package. She removed the thin, rock-hard tray from its box, tore off the plastic coating, and tossed it into the microwave.

"It's for the best," Tom had said, and Allison had reluctantly agreed. She'd seen the violence escalate all around her, both on television and in their usually quiet neighborhood, and the idea of military protection seemed logical. That was before actually experiencing it, however. The tiny, one-bedroom town house in Fort Meyer they now lived in held none of the creature comforts of home. Those were what she missed more than anything: her favorite bathrobe, her felt-padded rocking chair, and the king-sized bed dressed in satin sheets were all left behind in their rush to _get out_. At times she felt she would go mad without them.

_Don't let it get to you_ , she thought. _When all of this is over and things get back to normal, you'll have a nice, hot bubble bath and wash the badness away._

Part of her wasn't so sure of this, and Tom's state of mind was a big part of it. He'd grown increasingly distant over the past few weeks. When he was home—which wasn't often—there were times he wouldn't speak a word to either Shelly or her. He simply lingered on the back porch of the town house in silence, with the door locked behind him. Sometimes she heard him speaking aloud back there, his head dipping up and down like a bobble-head, while his cell phone, which never used to be out of his sight, rested quietly on the kitchen table. She didn't think she'd heard it so much as ring in a long time. She started to fear for his sanity. The job, and the hours he put in, weren't healthy for a man his age.

He'd started to lose weight, as well. A _lot_ of weight. The ample stomach she used to love resting her head on at night had shrunken so much that she'd had to take in his trousers on three different occasions. He looked emaciated; his cheeks became sunken and flaps of loose flesh dangled off his arms. This sudden weight loss struck her as odd, especially considering that he always seemed to be eating, devouring every meal as if it were his last. _It has to be the stress_ , she reasoned. _That has to be it. He's got a lot of responsibility on his shoulders._

She leaned against the counter, squeezed her eyes shut, and remembered the better days: the day she met Tom, when Allison was eighteen and he was forty, at a political rally sponsored by her father; their honeymoon in the Keys four years later, and the feel of the sand beneath her feet as she strolled along the beach with the man who would keep her safe for the rest of her life; the day Shelly was born, when she first looked into the baby's striking blue eyes and knew this child instantly loved her more than anyone else. These memories were the only things that could take away the shadow of doubt lingering over her.

The microwave beeped and Allison removed the steaming hot tray. She devoured her food, feeling at least a little better when the last tasteless bite slid down her throat. She tossed the container in the trash afterwards, and another helicopter whooshed overhead. She heard Shelly rustle in the other room. This time Allison didn't curse the noise. Instead, she went to check on her daughter. The sight of her cherubic little face would lift her spirits even more.

Someone rapped on the front door. "Tom!" she exclaimed. "You're home early!" The excitement of seeing her husband for the first time in days made her skip across the room like a schoolgirl. She threw the door open.

When she saw who stood on the rickety front steps, her expression soured.

"You."

•     •     •

Anger welled up inside Tom as he walked through Fort Meyer. Soldiers bustled about, loading boxes of supplies and weapons into a legion of Chinooks and Armored Personnel Carriers. The busy men and women looked as if they were trying to imitate the statue atop the Iwo Jima memorial, which on a clear day was visible in the distance outside the front gate. They were mobilizing, getting ready to evacuate the base despite the fact that this was against his direct orders. He wanted to scream at them, to yell out, " _Stop, I didn't consent to this_ ," but the ethereal comprehension that tickled the base of his spinal column forced his mouth shut. He would get his own way, it said, but not by conventional means.

_There's more than one way to eviscerate a cat_ , that knowledge stated. The image that came to his mind next made him laugh.

He crossed into the base's residential sector, where there was no commotion. All of the quaint little houses seemed calm, though he could practically feel the anxious energy of those who occupied them. They were women and children mostly, sitting in cramped quarters and waiting with bated breath for the moment their partners would stroll through the door to proclaim that all was well with the world. Tom understood that none of that would ever come to pass. A sensation akin to pride caused his eyes to well with tears. _I did this_. The statement wasn't a complete fact, yet he knew that he'd played his part with aplomb. He'd spread the remaining troops of every military faction across the country, thinning out their numbers to the point that any line of demarcation they could now form would resemble nothing but a faded smudge.

He marched down his street and up the footpath toward his temporary home. His otherworldly confidence disappeared, leaving him stranded, afraid and alone with his human doubt. Allison and Shelly would be waiting inside for him, a pair of pure faces he couldn't stomach any longer. They made him feel dreadful, made him feel sorry for himself. They would never understand his actions should they ever find out, never comprehend the purpose and magnitude of _the plan_. A part of him still wanted to come clean, however, and lay the truth down before them. This fraction wished to beg for mercy and absolution.

_You know what would happen, were you to do that_ , the knowledge said. _Put these impure thoughts out of your head. Now._

Tom nodded. "You don't have to tell me twice."

He put on a cheerful disguise and barged through the front door. "Honey, I'm home!" he bellowed. The masquerade faded when he walked into the kitchen. Allison sat at the table, looking like someone just shot the family dog. Shelly bounced in her lap, oblivious.

"Hey," said Allison with a frown.

"Daddy!" yelped Shelly.

"Hello, baby girl," he said with a smile, passing his wife a sideways glance. "That wasn't a very enthusiastic hello."

Allison nudged her head in the direction of the living room. "Someone's here to see you."

"Who?"

"He's got no hair!" proclaimed Shelly.

Allison grimaced. "Yup. It's you-know-who."

Tom squinted, shook his head, and walked past his family into the adjacent room, stopping only to stroke Shelly's curly brown locks. She giggled again, but as usual, the sound did nothing to stave off the onset of irritation. Allison looked up at him gravely and he returned the gesture. Dread filling his soul, he bit his tongue and headed for the confrontation.

A man he thought he'd never see again was in the family room, sitting in the dusty, burlap-covered recliner beside a cot covered with rumpled blankets. A newspaper lay sprawled over his lap. The light from the lamp beside him reflected off the top of his shaved and polished head. He'd obviously heard Tom enter the room (the slight twitch of his feet, propped up on the ottoman, confirmed this), but he didn't look up. Instead he continued the guise of reading, going so far as to remove his tinted, silver-rimmed glasses and wipe them.

"Ahem," Tom grunted.

"Hello, Thomas," the man replied without looking up.

"It's been a while, Carl."

"Yes, it has."

Tom felt hatred rise from his gut. He wanted to scream, to tell the short, bald bastard to get the fuck out of his house, but couldn't. In all his years of public service, only one man had ever made Thomas Steinberg feel the kind of paralyzing anxiety he was now experiencing, and it wasn't the Prime Minister of Britain, the Russian Premier, or even the Commander-In-Chief himself. No, that sensation was reserved for Carl Pendergrass, and Carl Pendergrass alone.

His rival folded the newspaper and tossed it on the coffee table, then swung his skinny legs off the ottoman with a grunt and stood up. It never ceased to amaze Tom how a man of this stature, five-foot-four and thin as a rail, could seem so indelibly significant by contrast. The man exuded confidence and displayed no pretenses. His expression seemed carved from granite, as if he never had anything to hide. And he never smiled, not even the phony kind. This trait made Tom hate him a little bit more every time they collaborated.

"So," said Tom, "why are you here?"

Pendergrass glared at him. "I'm doing my job."

Tom glared back. "I've got it covered."

"Yes, you've held down the fort, more or less." The short man's tenor dripped with sarcasm. "Can't say you've done a fantastic job of it, but I suppose you did what you could. You needn't worry about it any longer, however. I'm taking things over from here on out."

"What? No. You can't do that. The President hasn't—"

"The President is gone, Thomas. So are Strickland and Carver and Brighton. They fell ill two weeks ago. I'm sure you know what happens next."

"Yes, I have an idea. But how did _you_ avoid it? You have been with them the whole time, supposedly."

Pendergrass waved a hand at him. "It doesn't matter how I escaped it, just that I did. It was a bad scene. After their conditions...‌deteriorated...‌I had Camp David razed. The Marine regiment who carried out my orders then transported me here. So now, _dear friend_ , we can get back to work."

Tom grinned. "You _do_ realize that you have no power, don't you, Carl? You walk into my house and talk to me like you're calling the shots. You're not. The President and Strickland are dead...‌unless you've lied to me about that. That makes me third in line. You're nothing but the Defense Secretary. That means _I've_ got the command, not you."

"Not so," replied Pendergrass. He never once flinched. "You're grasping at the remnants of order, Thomas, and _there is no order any longer._ The old rules do not apply. Fear and respect are all that matter now." One corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk. " _I_ have that, not you."

Tom opened his mouth, but shut it without saying a word and glanced over his shoulder. Shelly's little head poked around the corner from the kitchen. _Not now_ , his brain's manager instructed. _Not here._

Pendergrass went on without missing a beat. "This does not mean you're going to be shut out, however. You will be involved...‌to a point. Do you understand?"

Tom nodded.

"Good." He checked his watch. "Meet me at the north barracks in two hours. When you arrive, I'll tell you what you need to know."

With that, Pendergrass walked away. Tom watched him nod in Allison's direction on his way through the kitchen. The front door slammed two seconds later.

Tom hung his head. _I knew this would happen_ , he thought. _Why couldn't he have died with the rest of them?_

_His time will come_ , the comforting trespasser replied. _Do not listen to his words. He possesses no power. He does not know what power is. But_ you _do._

Tom lifted his eyes to the doorway. Allison stood there, holding Shelly in her arms. A look of sympathy crossed her face and he smiled at her. It seemed to take a great deal of effort for his young wife to return the gesture.

"Don't worry, honey," he said. He turned around and headed for the bedroom, His face glowing with a sinister sort of pride.

"We have everything under control."

•     •     •

Tom arrived at the north barracks just as dusk began to wrap its ghostly hands around a once-bright day. The commotion inside the base had calmed by then, so much so that the place seemed deserted. A hundred feet away, the four Chinooks rested on the vast stretch of pavement in front of the hangar, preparing ready to depart. In the morning the order would come, this much he knew just from experience. He grunted and reached into his pockets, where his fingers were greeted by the handle of the wire clippers hidden there.

_No, it won't._

He whistled as he strode around the building. Just like his trip home earlier that day, he could sense the thoughts of those inside. These were the thoughts of soldiers, their bodies at rest but not their minds. Their emotions twisted together, forming a confused kaleidoscope of longing, excitement, and fear. He smiled as they surged through him. He kicked at the dirt with his loafers and kept his head down. No matter what Pendergrass would say, no matter what he tried, the feelings he now held were off-limits to him. The bastard could never take them—or his inner strength—away. No human could.

"Glad you could make it."

Tom lifted his eyes. Pendergrass stood alone on the pathway between the mess hall and the garrison, his phone pressed to his ear. Tom felt a moment of confusion, seeing as every cellular network had collapsed weeks ago. He thought at first that Carl was pretending, attempting to make him feel insignificant by feigning a conversation. That assumption departed the moment he heard a crackle of electronic chatter. He frowned. Pendergrass never once looked at him. The light from an overhead street lamp gleamed off of his glossy dome. The way he stood, and the overzealousness of his constant nodding, screamed with mockery.

Despite this, Tom felt preternaturally calm.

He waited patiently while Pendergrass ended his conversation and snapped his phone shut. The little man closed his eyes and breathed in deep, like a high-diver readying to jump from the diving board. Still, he said nothing.

"Who was that?" asked Tom.

"No one you have to worry about."

"Perhaps not, but it might have been helpful if I'd known what communications system you've been using. All of us in the real world have been running deaf and blind."

Pendergrass lifted the phone and taunted him with it, wiggling the device in his face like a schoolyard bully. "Satellite phone. Undisclosed frequency. Emergency measures, Thomas, only to be used in disaster situations."

"And what I've been trying to handle here isn't considered a—"

"Get over yourself," snapped Pendergrass. "You knew what you needed to know."

Pendergrass crossed in front of him and leaned against the slatted garrison wall. The flash of anger he'd just displayed vanished and his defenses dropped. "It's been a long day, Thomas. Shit, it's been a long two months."

With Carl's moment of reflection, Tom's brain was inundated with information. He saw Pendergrass in a state he'd never seen before: hesitant. He watched as the Defense Secretary ordered troops to shoot the President and Cabinet; listened as he made the decision to leave his family behind in the hellhole Camp David had become; observed the little man as he set the ball rolling on his contingency plan. Along with this, he sensed every thread of doubt and guilt Carl Pendergrass felt.

This uncertainty caused his confidence to waver and his decisiveness to be less than resolute. It was the break Tom needed to let him in, the flash of humanity that allowed him to understand what was about to happen.

"Well, I'll be damned."

"What?" said Pendergrass. He stiffened and Tom could see nothing more, but it didn't matter. He'd seen enough to know what he had to do next.

"You brought me out here," said Tom, "to _kill_ me?"

Pendergrass straightened and stepped away from the wall. "I don't know what you're talking about, Thomas. Are you going mad? I knew you were stre—"

"Shut up."

Tom glared and took a menacing stride forward. _Stop it, Thomas_ , the voice inside said. From above, the sound of a tussle arose.

"You shut the fuck up, too," he replied, out loud. He cocked his head and listened for a reply. When none came, he turned back to Pendergrass. The man who had brought him out there to have him murdered had his hand in his pocket. He was fumbling around for something, and Tom knew what it was.

"That's not going to do you any good," he said with a laugh. "The three guys on the roof won't be able to hear you. They were dead as of five seconds ago." He tapped his finger on his temple. "Always think ahead, Carl. _You_ taught me that."

The eyes of his adversary glanced skyward, appearing nervous, unbelieving. His hands shook. Tom didn't bother to follow his gaze. He knew what Pendergrass was starting to understand—that Tom meant business.

"What are you doing?" the little man asked.

"Setting things straight. There's not going to be any getaway to some bunker in Colorado. And why is it always Colorado, anyway? Forget it, it doesn't matter. The point is there will be no grand collection of brilliant men and women with childbearing hips waiting to be saved. You can't hide, Carl. You can't protect us. Not anymore."

Pendergrass opened his mouth, shut it, and then his eyes shifted from left to right. He started to slide away and Tom, with quickness he never knew his aging and still slightly overweight body was capable of, leapt at him. He wrapped one hand around his throat and yanked the wire clippers from his coat pocket with the other. Pendergrass's eyes bulged from his head while he gasped underneath the weight of Tom's grip.

Tom's grin widened as he plunged the clippers' shearing edge up his enemy's nose. Blood gushed from his nostrils as the cartilage between them snapped. Carl's eyes rolled back, revealing their white undersides, and a liquid moan escaped his lips. Tom shoved again, forcing the clippers in up to their rubber handles. Pendergrass shook. A final crack sounded as the metal prongs broke into his brain cavity. Carl's throat constricted and a stream of blood, phlegm, and bile erupted from his open mouth, splattering against Tom's suit.

Tom released his grip on the dead man's throat and let him fall. He stood over the body, staring at it. In that moment he couldn't believe he had ever been afraid of him. _Look at the guy_ , he thought. _So small. So broken. So insignificant._ He shrugged. _Oh well._

He exited the passageway, leaving the corpse where it lay, and wiped the dripping remnants of Carl Pendergrass off his stomach with his bare hand. A brisk wind blew across his forehead, carrying with it the moans of countless angry souls. He looked through the gate—a tall, triple-thick structure, lined on its top with coiled razor wire—and squinted into the dimness beyond. A multitude of wicked faces he could feel, but could not see, gazed back. He closed his eyes and listened to the wind. No crickets chirped, no birds cheeped, and there was no distant grind of automobiles on the highway. Everything felt dead. He turned around to see four sets of glowing eyes stare at him from atop the roof of the garrison. Tom grew worried.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

He started running, his feet pounding the concrete in a clumsy gallop. _I have to get away from here_ , he thought. _I have to drive far away. Please give me that much time, at least._ It was the rational part of his brain that said this. The other side, the fraction infiltrated by a foreign persuasion, stayed calm. It spoke to him in a voice that he found soothing, despite its cryptic warning.

_This place is to be obliterated like all others_ , it said. _I will give you time to leave despite your disobedience, but never deny me again._

He burst through the front door of the town house. His foot struck one of Shelly's boots, which had been abandoned on the kitchen floor, and he lost his balance. He skidded to his knees like a baseball player sliding into home plate, only stopping when his shin rammed the dining table's buttress. Pain shot up his leg, through his thighs, and into his gut. He shrieked.

"Honey?" asked Allison with a startled voice.

She appeared in the living room doorway, looking disheveled and scared. A distant animal began to howl. Shelly, snug in her mother's arms, jumped. She wiped at her eyes with her balled fists and stared at her father.

"What's going on, Tom?" asked Allison. "What's happened?"

Tom swallowed his pride. "Get your things, Allie," he said. "We're leaving."

"But when, Daddy?"

"Right now."

## CHAPTER 12

### REFUGE

Sophia's forehead was on fire. Josh sat beside her as she lay on the couch, gently stroking her sweat-drenched hair. Her chest rose and fell much too slowly while he counted the seconds between breaths like a midwife overseeing a pregnancy. Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned. Josh's heart sank.

"It's okay, Rascal," he whispered. "You're gonna be fine."

He wished that were true.

An explosion rocked the house, causing dust and wood splinters to fall from the unfinished basement's ceiling. Josh yelped and covered Sophia's body with his own to shield her from the debris. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his parents sitting hand-in-hand on the floor. They stared back, their expressions displaying a kind of anxiety he'd never imagined would enter their world, all clenched-lipped, wide-eyed, and shaking. He feared they might pass out from the terror of what was going on above them, but then his father offered him an unyielding wink that set him at ease. Don Benoit put a finger to his lips and nodded. Josh gave the 'a-ok' signal in return. It wasn't as if he didn't know they had to keep quiet.

The basement's only furnishings were the couch, the loveseat opposite it, and boxes of old toys that could be used as stools if the mood so struck them. The concrete floor was covered by an old throw rug. Cold air seeped in through the tiny, blacked-out windows. _This_ was the refuge that Josh had sought, uncomfortable, dark, and frightening as it was. The house lost power only minutes after Josh had convinced his parents that they needed to take shelter, leaving them trapped with no food and a sparse supply of bottled water.

The only light in the room came from the two candles his mother had had the foresight to retrieve from beneath the kitchen sink. Gail's face was like granite, staring at him from above the ghostly shimmer of the twin flames. He glanced again at Sophia. She looked sick as a dog. They had no medical supplies in the basement, not even a spare vial of aspirin. He understood, though, that even if they _had_ some, it wouldn't be of much help. What Sophia needed was a doctor, and soon.

Another explosion rocked the basement. The rafters shook once more, raining fragments of termite-eaten struts on his head. The crack of splintering wood came next. It seemed to come from just outside the small window above them. Josh wheeled around to see his father sprinting toward the cellar steps. He ascended them, with Josh on his heels. their feet, clad in old stockings, thudded softly on the creaky planks. His father pressed an ear to the door and tried the doorknob. The latch rattled but didn't give. He bent to check the nails he'd driven into the baseboards ( _Just in case, son_ , he'd said), and gave Josh the thumbs-up.

They hustled back down the stairs. Another crack echoed around them, followed by a loud _boom_. Animalistic screams sounded from above. The ceiling shook.

"Gail," whispered Josh's father, "blow out the candles. They're in the house."

The family formed a triangle around Sophia. Josh was afraid to breathe. The air around them trembled and the sounds of the riot upstairs rose to a deafening level. Josh heard what could have been dishes being smashed in the kitchen, as well as the splintering _rip_ of cabinets being torn from their moorings. Sophia muttered in her fevered haze, and for a moment Josh feared she would begin coughing again.

That fear was soon replaced by another, more prescient one. The doorknob at the top of the stairwell rattled. He had a moment of clarity, thinking how foolish they'd been to think that a flimsy lock and a few nails would protect them. He squeezed his arms around his parents in the pitch-black room, pulling them in close as if to fortify their defensive barrier through bodily contact. He wished he'd brought a weapon with him: the gun he'd dropped in the woods, a knife, a crowbar, anything.

The knob continued its clatter. Josh held his breath and imagined his parents doing the same thing. Then, with one final, violent scream, an object struck the door with such force that they heard the wood split. The rattling stopped. Gunfire rang out from the street, a sound Josh had grown much too accustomed to over the last few hours. The melding of sound caused the moment to seem unreal, like a movie within a movie. Explosions, gunshots, and shouts played on, in tune with his rapid heartbeat. It pulled him into a nightmare realm where every passing second carried with it the promise that their sanctuary would be infiltrated any moment.

As quickly as they'd arrived, the trespassers departed the house. He heard their thunderous footsteps as they pounded their way out the back door, their shrieks entering his head as the noise seeped through the windows and echoed off the foundation.

A few minutes later, they were gone. Only the far-away resonance of a world at war remained. Josh let out a relieved sigh and let his shoulders slump. He felt lightheaded from holding his breath for so long.

"Do you think it's safe?" he heard his mother ask.

"Not yet," replied his father.

_Not ever_ , was all Josh could think.

•     •     •

Minutes became hours, which in turn became a full day, perhaps more. The outlying crash of discord faded into an eerie, absolute silence. Josh relit the candles, thinking, or maybe hoping, that they were safe.

The family took turns caring for Sophia, doing their best to comfort her in any way possible. Josh felt her head; her body temperature remained scalding. She was still asleep, and her incomprehensible muttering grew more prevalent with each exhale. Josh wondered if the fever could cook her brain.

His mother held Sophia's head in her lap while his father stood beside her, his hand on his wife's shoulder. Both looked down at their child with expressions of quiet reservation. Never once did they vocalize whatever fears played out in their minds. As if reading his thoughts, his father glanced up at him and winked.

"Everything's going to be okay, son," he said.

It amazed Josh how well his parents were dealing with all of this. Their sense of duty far exceeded anything he thought himself capable of. They were _still_ taking care of him, as well as their sick daughter, even though the world had gone to hell. He felt so weak by comparison—insignificant and needy, like seaweed clinging to ocean rocks.

"How is she?" Josh asked.

"She's fine, honey," his mother answered without looking up.

"Well," said his father, "maybe not fine, but still with us, I think."

Josh sighed. "What do we do now?"

His father raised his eyes to the ceiling as if he could see through the floorboards. "We need help," he said. "I don't know what this flu is doing to her. She needs a doctor...‌or at least _medicine._ " He habitually glanced at his watch and then back at his daughter. Giving his wife's shoulder another squeeze, he glided across the concrete floor and snatched his coat from its resting spot beside the staircase.

"It's been quiet for a while," he said. "I'll go see if I can drum up some help."

Josh whirled at the sound of those words and ran to him. "No," he said. He snatched the coat from his father's hands. "You don't have to go."

"Yes, I do, son. Someone needs to get some medicine, at least."

"I know. That's not the point." Josh pointed at the two women, young and old, mother and daughter, who sat ten feet away. "Mom needs you here. Sophia, too. You can't leave. You need to _protect_ them."

As if finally realizing what he was implying, his father said, "You're not going."

Josh closed his eyes. "C'mon, Dad."

His father's face twisted with concern. He reached out his hand. "Josh..."

"I don't think you should go, either," his mother chimed in.

Josh's resolve stiffened. "I don't care what you guys think. I'm younger and faster than you, Dad. And stronger, too. I mean, shit. You've got a bad back and bad knees. What's gonna happen if you run into one of those...‌things? You gonna plow it over with your lawnmower?"

His father opened his mouth to retort, but Josh stopped him before he could say a word. "No, Dad. I'm not gonna argue anymore. The decision's made. I'm going."

Gail's teary eyes glimmered in the candlelight. "Do you know what she needs?" she asked.

"I've been sick before. I'm sure I can figure it out. The pink stuff, the white stuff, whatever. I'll get it done. I _promise_."

Josh tossed aside his father's jacket and snatched his parka from the pile of coats. He pulled it over his shoulders, letting its thickness wrap him up in a cocoon. The sensation caused him to feel strangely at peace with his decision. He gave his concerned father one last reassuring smile and started up the stairs. Halfway up he stopped and turned back.

"Don't worry about me, you guys," he said. "I'll be back before you know it."

## CHAPTER 13

### CLAWS & TEETH

Horace followed a small battalion of soldiers down the hallway. He pushed the gurney before him as fast as his aching body would allow, cursing those in front. The other men could have helped shoulder the load, but it didn't seem to be their top priority at the moment. He glanced at the young man in the stretcher, who looked up at him with confused, lethargic eyes. There was a bundle of bloody gauze wrapped around his waist that he held with both hands.

"What's going on?" the kid asked.

"Shush now," Horace said, out of breath. "We're...‌almost...‌there."

"Struder!" screamed Major Franks from the other end of the hall. "Hurry the hell up, man!" He held open a heavy wooden door and the soldiers dashed charged through it.

Far behind him and closing in fast, Horace heard a procession of metallic clanks, like fingernails tapping on slate. He gulped, swallowed as much air as his diseased lungs would allow, and urged his legs to move faster.

He burst through the door at full speed. Upon entering he tried to pull up, but his feet slipped on the polished floor. His hands lost their grip on the gurney and he tumbled like a kid trying to ice skate for the first time. His hip struck the ground, followed by his elbow, and then his head. The side of his face lit on fire when his skull bounced off the tile. His vision blurred. He heard a crash as the gurney smacked into the wall. The dull _thud_ of another plummeting body reaching its destination came next.

Horace wanted to look up, wanted to make sure the kid, his charge, was okay, but he couldn't. The pain surging through his body was eerily similar to how he had felt when, in his early twenties, he'd gotten himself into a five-car accident on the Merritt Parkway. _The feeling will pass_ , he told himself, trying to stave off the buzzing in his nerve endings. _Just let it go._

The door slammed and people dashed about him. His dizziness lessened, though the pain did not, and he tasted the coppery tang of blood on his tongue. He picked up his head.

Major Franks stood with his body pressed against the door. He shouted for everyone to " _hold it steady, hang on"._ His men congregated around him, leaning their weight into the door as it buckled and shook from the force of those pounding from the other side.

Horace groaned and rose to his knees, his heart rattling inside its protective cage. He crawled in the other direction, away from the door, toward the overturned gurney. Its wheels were still spinning.

The stretcher's occupant was sprawled out behind the thin mattress. His face was scrunched, obviously in a great deal of pain, and he muttered curses into the air. Horace wrapped his fingers around the young man's calf.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

The prone young man opened his eyes. "Been better," he replied.

"What's your name?"

"Clyde Cooper, first..." He clutched at his stomach and winced before continuing. "First-year resident. Where are we?"

"Third floor, cardiology," said Horace. He glanced around. A tall rack of equipment sat against one wall, a large metal washbasin lined with cleaning materials was against the other. Next to Clyde was another large door. An observation window lingered directly above them. "Looks like we're in a prep station," he said, pointing. "The operating room should be right through there."

Clyde sat up. He winced again and then stared, wide-eyed, at the scene before him. "What's going on?" he asked. "The last thing I knew, I was in pediatrics doing some paperwork. I think the wall...‌exploded. Or something like that. How did I get here?"

"We found you on the floor, and yes, you were in pediatrics. You had a bullet in your side. I removed it. We've been running around like mad ever since." Horace coughed. "I'm too old for this, I think."

"Why is it so dark?" asked Clyde.

"The power is out. The emergency lights are all we have left." Horace jabbed his thumb at the wall, where a box was fastened, six and a half feet up, with a halogen lamp on either side. The lamps created sparse, ominous-looking illumination. "It isn't much, but it's something...‌but those will only last as long as the generator on the roof does. When that goes, well, we're in the black until morning."

"Where's everyone else?"

"I don't know. It all happened so fast. There was a lot of gunfire and screaming. I think some got out. Most didn't. The area downstairs is horrible. There are bodies everywhere. I think we're lucky to be breathing at the moment."

Clyde nodded, peeled back the gauze around his midsection, and examined his injury. Filaments of nylon thread poked from his flesh like the hairs of an insect. The wound itself looked like a red and zigzagging cartoon smile. The young practitioner frowned.

"I'm sorry about the shoddy workmanship," said Horace. "I had to stitch you up in a hurry. They were right outside the door at the time, very much like they are now." He cleared his throat. "And besides that, it's been years since I practiced actual medicine."

A half-smile crossed Clyde's lips, which stood in stark contrast to the shouting still going on around them. "Guess it isn't so bad," he said. "Was it a clean wound?"

"I think so. I didn't see much in the way of damage. The bullet was only a few inches deep. I found it just outside the intestinal wall. I think the coat you were wearing softened the blow a bit."

"How about any other internal injuries? Bleeding?"

"You tell me."

Clyde squinted. "What?"

"Are you in a great deal of pain? Do you feel constipated, or like you have a strong urge to urinate?"

Clyde twisted his trunk, grimaced, and said, "No, not really. I'm just sore. And hot, on the surface. My head hurts like a son of a bitch."

"I would venture to say the bullet missed your kidneys, then. I think you'll be fine, as long as you—"

" _STRUDER!_ "

Horace spun his head toward the doorway. Major Franks squatted, flanked by his six remaining soldiers. He had his back pressed into the door with his feet braced in front of him. His boots skittered on the slick floor as he tried to gain traction. His men were standing, using their hands and shoulders to do the same and not having any more luck. The heavy door rocked inward, its hinges appearing only moments away from tearing loose. Horace stood up.

"What's through the doors behind you?" Major Franks bellowed.

"It's the operating room," said Horace, though he realized that with his tone it sounded more like a question than an answer.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"And beyond that?"

"I don't know, Jimmy." In the moment he didn't realize his slip, using not only the Major's first name but a bastardized version of it, at that. Franks didn't seem to notice, either.

"Why not?"

"I haven't been in this part of the hospital in a long time. So it could be..."

"Radiology and Imaging," Clyde interjected. Horace breathed a sigh of relief at the save.

Major Franks frowned. The door buckled again and his feet slipped. He shuffled, regained his footing, and said, "Get out of here, then. We'll be right behind you."

Horace nodded in compliance. He bent over and offered Clyde his hand.

"Can you stand?" he asked.

"I think so."

"Good."

Horace helped his wounded new friend to his feet. He draped Clyde's arm around his neck, opened the door, and together they stumbled into the adjacent room. The young resident's weight, however slight he appeared, wore on Horace's back and shoulders.

"I can't go on for too long like this," he muttered.

The riot of rupturing wood and plaster froze them in their tracks. They turned as one and peered through the observation window. Horace's jaw dropped. Clyde's hand reached out and turned the deadbolt on the door.

A pack of ravenous, disfigured creatures poured into the room they had just vacated. Some wore tattered hospital scrubs while others were decked in military garb, weapons still held in their clawed hands. The few remaining soldiers fell quickly, being overrun by the horde's forward momentum. Where the men fell, geysers of blood erupted into the air.

Only Major Franks remained standing. He positioned himself in front of the window, weapon drawn, firing randomly in every direction. Horace could hear his shouts. "Fuck you!" Franks screamed. "And you! You fuckers! Just _fuck off!_ "

A deafening _bang_ came next and the observation window exploded. Horace ducked, pulling Clyde down with him to avoid the spraying glass. Then there was a moment of silence. They peeked over the lip one last time.

The headless body of Major Franks stood, teetering from side to side. The pistol was still in his hand and his finger still squeezed the trigger while pressurized blood ejected from the stump of his neck. Two sneering creatures tackled his twitching remains, ripping his corpse to shreds. Horace couldn't help but think of Kelly, and he at last understood the _why_ aspect of her final, desperate act. For the millionth time in the past few weeks, his stomach lurched.

"Holy shit," Clyde whispered.

Without saying a word Horace forced the young man to turn. They headed in the opposite direction, trying to stay low, and left through the operating room's open door. The sounds of tearing flesh were followed by nauseating slurps, and finally by a chorus of animalistic yowls. He gestured for Clyde to proceed as quietly as possible, hoping the creatures in the other room would be too busy with their feast to notice them.

When they entered the corridor they stopped and Horace looked around. He didn't know which way to go.

"I'm sorry, son," he said. Defeat crept into his voice. "I can't think right now."

Clyde winked at him. Horace could swear he saw a twinkle in the youngster's eye.

"Don't worry, grandpa," Clyde said. "I might be a first-year resident, but I spent more than a few semesters here, too. I know this place like the back of my hand." He pointed down the hall with the hand draped around Horace's shoulder. "There's a service access stairwell down that way. We can get out through there. As long as I can stay upright, I think we'll be fine."

Horace allowed Clyde to guide him. Sure enough, as they rounded the next corner, a door marked ' **Service Access Only'** appeared. He pulled the door open. The choir of demons grew louder from around the bend. It would only be a matter of time before they came after them, as well. They stepped into the stairwell. Horace closed the door and locked it.

The odd pair descended the steps in near blackness like a couple of drunks. Below them would be ground level. Were they to make it that far they could run for it, if either of them could gather enough strength to move in a way faster than a stagger. With the idea of reaching the open air in mind, one thought echoed through Horace's brain. It sung like an ill-omened refrain he didn't want to think about, two simple words that said everything:

_What then?_

## CHAPTER 14

### FRIENDS & NEIGHBORS

It looked like a tornado had touched down. Trash and other debris littered the streets of the once-quiet town, combining with the sunless, cloud-filled afternoon to create an aura of gray despair.

On the corner of Main Street there was a crater in the sidewalk the size of a small car. The destruction around him seemed strange, almost haphazard, with chunks blown out of buildings fifteen feet above him, as if the soldiers were firing at random. Josh maneuvered through the area with caution, the fall air attacking him with its consistent, frigid gusts. His parka did little to protect him from the cold. He shivered, stuffed his hands in the deep front pocket, and rubbed them together to keep warm. He tried to tell himself that he would be fine if he could only forget about his discomfort.

The wind that froze his bones also carried with it thick, black smoke. It drifted from the carcasses of burned-out buildings and lingered in the air. It billowed from the door of the tobacconist in front of which his Bonneville still lay, overturned and useless. He stopped and looked around. Scenes very similar to these had played out on every street he had passed during his half-mile hike. His brain asked a question he didn't really want a solution to.

_With all this devastation, where are the bodies?_

His answer came when he rounded the next bend.

There, the fires still burned. Flames vomited from shop windows and ruined cars. Human remains covered the ground. He tried his best not to notice them as he passed, but the sheer number made it a futile effort. Instead he tried to detach himself and proceeded to weave through a minefield of severed arms, limbless torsos, and unrecognizable, bloody chunks of ruin. The scent of burning flesh and rubber forced its way up his nose and down his throat. He had to pull the parka's collar up over his nose to keep from gagging.

Despite the horror and discomfort, he sensed a strange calm wash over him, surging through his gut in a soothing wave. The little voice of panic whispered into his ear and told him to run away and hide, but that voice held no power over the composure he now felt. He assumed he was experiencing the same sort of courage he'd noticed earlier in his parents, a sense of valor that allowed him to remain aware when he should have been paralyzed by fear. It was an extension of his duty to protect the ones he loved. He smiled, knowing his folks would have been proud had they been there to witness it.

_The fear will come later_ , _after I do what I have to._

Finally his destination appeared, a beacon of salvation in the distance. It was the supermarket, and it thankfully seemed to have remained intact. He dashed across the parking lot, forgetting the need for caution, and sped by tangled masses of smoldering metal that had been working automobiles only a day ago.

He stopped when he reached the front entrance and searched for signs of life, but there were none to be found. He glanced at the overhang and noticed the ratty twine and dirt of a bird's nest sticking out from above the lip. There were no wings flapping and no squeaks of hungry chicks. He imagined that the prior occupants had already flown south for the winter, causing the empty nest to mirror the rest of the town: abandoned and lifeless.

The storefront window had been smashed, and he stepped through the opening. The supermarket seemed to be in decent enough shape, although the dim light coming in from outside made it look as if darkness was slowly devouring the interior from rear to front. A few grocery bags had been dropped by the checkout stations, their contents scattered. He kept his eyes glued to the floor as he walked, careful not to step on a can and twist his ankle, and made his way past the express lanes and customer service desk. His objective—the pharmacy—came next. He stopped at the aisles in front and read the labels of the bottles stacked there. Frustration tickled the back of his throat. _I don't even know what she needs_ , he thought, and then, _if I do find something, is it okay if I just grab it?_

The building creaked. It was a lonely sound, like the cry of an extinct species echoing through time. He looked around and noticed that the sun had poked out of the clouds and that he was being foolish. No one would care if he took every item off of every shelf in the store, because there was no one _left_ to __ care.

He snatched a grocery basket from the stand beside the pharmacy and began to toss random boxes in. Tylenol, Advil, Vicks 44, Midol, Aleve, Motrin, and anything else he could get his hands on. He was about to turn away when he finally remembered exactly what he was supposed to be looking for. He placed the quarter-filled basket on the pharmacy counter and jumped over. It was dark back there, so he flicked on his lighter and rifled through the inventory. _Penicillin, Amoxicillin_ , his mind sang while he scanned the labels. Finally he sifted through a tub filled with prepared orders and found what he was looking for, tucked away in crinkly paper bags. He snatched the two bottles, shook them, heard liquid gurgle, and placed them into his bin.

With his foray into the pharmacy complete, he slid back over the counter and walked the length of the store, heading for the produce aisle. "Might as well," he whispered. The light from outside didn't reach that far into the building, so he picked up a newspaper, curled it into a cylinder, and lit the end.

Guided by torchlight like a fifteenth-century brigand, he worked his way down the aisle. He flung apples, carrots, and a bundle of bananas into the basket before thinking it might be smart to grab some canned goods, as well. His feet carried him into the pitch-black end of the store.

Just as comfort dared to sneak its way into his nerves, he was blinded by a flash of light that burned his eyes with the intensity of a supernova. His heart jumped and he fell, landing with a thud against an unseen display stand, knocking it over. The basket and newspaper torch fell from his hand. Fruit and medicine bottles bounced and rolled away from him. Feathery scraps of glowing, cindered paper floated like lightning bugs through the darkness.

"Don't fucking move!" a voice screamed.

He quickly brought his hands up and held them in front of him, both to convey surrender and shield his eyes from the blinding light. The sound of footsteps could be heard, very close by. He gasped for breath as the world narrowed in on him.

"What's your name and why are you here?" the voice demanded.

"I...‌I'm..." Josh replied. He squinted against the glare, but could only see shadows.

After a pause, the voice said, "It's all right. He's not one of them."

The glare fell off to the side. It was the beam of a spotlight, Josh realized, and lowered his hands. He blinked in an attempt to eliminate the sunbursts obstructing his vision but only succeeded in making them more pronounced. Between the flashes, three figures emerged. They hovered five feet away, one with its hands on its hips like a drill sergeant, the other two aiming rifles at him.

"Get up," the shadow in the center ordered.

On a pair of trembling knees, Josh did as he was told. He rose to his feet and took a step back, just in case he had to make a run for it. The fear waned a bit, though he still couldn't stop panting.

The three silhouettes turned away from him without a word and pulled open the door to the stockroom. The glow from behind it lit the shadow men's features. The one in the center, the one who spoke, was an older man with graying hair and a thick, unyielding jaw. He wore fatigues and carried a large flashlight. Those flanking him were men from around town, who had even stopped by The Pit on occasion, but Josh couldn't think of their names. Checkered flannels hung from their broad shoulders and ratty-looking beards concealed their faces. The automatic rifles were now slung over their shoulders.

The man in fatigues turned to him and threw his arms up. "Are you coming?"

Josh started to move forward, but stopped and hustled back to the upturned basket, rummaging through its spilled contents. When he found the two bottles of prescription antibiotics, he felt around the containers to make sure they hadn't leaked during the fall and then stuffed them into his parka.

He tentatively snuck through the open door. Much to his surprise, it wasn't only sunlight that lit the stockroom. A row of halogen lamps had been erected and people filled the room: civilians and soldiers, men and women. The people worked quickly, loading crates into pickup trucks, which were parked outside the dock doors. In an odd way, it resembled any normal day at J&P.

The man with the graying hair took him by the arm. "So, kid," he said, "Do you have a name?"

Josh's mouth felt like he'd been sucking on a sponge for hours. "Josh," he finally said, and shook the man's hand.

"General Westin Stack," was the reply. The man then turned his attention back to his charges but didn't stop speaking.

"Sorry if we scared you, boy. Precautions are necessary. We needed to make sure you weren't one of _them_. We've been clearing the area since sunrise, so I'm sure you will understand if me and the boys are a bit jumpy."

"Clearing the area?"

"We were eliminating any straggling hostiles."

Josh frowned. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't understand any of this."

The General turned and stared him down. His eyes burned a hole in his skull with impatience. Stack opened his mouth again, the veins in his neck tense, but another man spoke up an said, "I'll take care of this." The General blew air out of his nose and turned away. Josh pivoted toward the new voice.

A breathtakingly familiar old man walked up to him wearing a wide smile on his face. "What's up, kiddo?" he asked, and wrapped Josh in a fatherly hug.

"Mister C?" said Josh, pressing his chin into the crook of the old man's neck. The relief that flowed through him brought him close to crying. James Conroy didn't say anything, simply patted Josh's back.

They pulled away from each other, though keeping their hands entwined. Relieved tears trickled down Josh's cheeks. He welcomed the emotion. For the first time since the explosions hit, he felt like himself.

"So, how are you?" asked James.

Josh chuckled. "Okay. I guess."

"Same here. Where have you been?"

A tinge of guilt crept in. "Hiding out in my folks' basement." He nodded to the busy scene. "But it looks like you guys have been hard at it. Unlike me."

James let go of Josh and offered him a sympathetic half-smile. "Don't let this fool you, kiddo," he said. "You don't got nothing to be ashamed of. At least you're alive. I mean, hell, me and Sandra spent the last two days up at the old church in Newmarket. You know, the concert place. It's not like _I've_ been a model of courage. In fact, I don't think none of us have been."

"I know. I'm just feeling sorry for myself." Josh glimpsed at the soldiers, who were still busy at work all around them. "What's up with the Marines?"

"Just regular Army. They showed up at the church the same night we did."

"So what happened? This morning you all just decided it was time to hit the market?"

"No. They're planning something. _We're_ planning something. Something big."

"Who's ' _we'_?"

The General's commanding voice cut in from behind them. "The survivors," he said, and Josh turned around. The General stood with his hands still firmly planted on his hips as if they'd been welded there. "The people who want to make a difference."

Josh didn't know what to say, so he simply nodded.

"Do you know what we're up against?"

Josh shook his head.

"Follow me."

Stack led him through the storeroom. They approached a large steel door on the other side, a door Josh recognized from his teenage years, when he was a stock boy at this very supermarket. It was the entrance into the store's large freezer. Stack stopped before it and yanked the handle. A cloud of steam arose from the seams. He signaled for one of the soldiers to shine a spotlight in.

"Take a look for yourself," he said.

Josh peered through the opening. The mist slowly cleared, revealing the room's contents. Metal racks lined the walls, laced with melting ice. Frozen dinners, unbaked dinner rolls, and soggy cartons of ice cream, along with other items, were stacked on the shelves. Slabs of meat dangled from hooks in the ceiling, their surfaces slick and dripping reddish-white liquid.

Perishable goods were not what the General wished for him to see, however.

There were bodies stacked in the rear corner of the room. They'd been thrown on top of each other in a haphazard fashion, their limbs protruding from the pile like tentacles. The spotlight passed over the mound and Josh saw their faces. Each one of them appeared drawn out and horrified, with skin as white as eggshells. In the center of the foreheads of those that weren't completely obliterated were dripping red holes.

Josh stumbled back as the scent of decay flooded his nostrils. He threw himself into the corner and bent over. His stomach hitched and flushed its few remaining contents in a rank stream of vomit that burned his esophagus on its way out. He closed his eyes, knowing that were he to look at the mess he had made, he would surely retch again. Disgusted voices murmured from behind him. Though he knew his actions were understandable given the circumstances, his pride took a nosedive.

A gentle hand rubbed his back and his nausea subsided. He straightened up, using the sleeve of his parka to wipe a spot of bile from the corner of his lips. James stood to his right, looking up at him with sympathetic eyes. General Stack loomed behind the old man, staring in the other direction, apparently paying them no mind.

"Who are they?" Josh was finally able to ask.

James opened his mouth but the General spoke, instead. "The unfortunate ones," he said. "And there are plenty more where _they_ came from."

Mr. Conroy's gaze dropped to his feet. The General kept on talking, pacing the entire time. "This is a war, boy, and in times like these, there comes a point where a person has to make a choice." He swiveled, and he and Josh locked eyes. "And that choice is this: Do you want to fight, or do you want to run?"

"I...‌I don't know," muttered Josh.

"Well, you'd better figure it out. It's life or death out here. There _are no in-betweens._ "

With those words, the General walked away. He barked orders at his flock, who in turn hurried to carry those orders out. Josh rubbed his temples.

"I think we're going to be leaving soon," said James. "We're heading back to the church. I think you should come with us."

Josh shook his head. "I gotta get back home, Mister C. My parents are waiting for me."

"Well, you should at least check it out. I mean, you'll have protection, and the soldiers can probably get you back to your folks if you want to leave. It might end up being a safer place for the lot of you."

Josh thought it over, considered the possibility he might find a doctor there, and said, "I can only stay for an hour or so. Then I have to get back."

"Sure thing, kiddo. Sure thing."

Josh thought of Sophia, lying asleep on the couch while sickness tore through her body. _Yes, finding a doctor might be the best way to go_ , he thought, and his logic overrode his doubts. A sickening feeling slunk up his spine.

"Okay, Mister C," he said, trying to ignore it. "Lead the way."

•     •     •

The thundering chorus of marching feet and slamming doors awoke Kyra from her slumber. She sat up and wiped her eyes. "What now?" she groaned. She had reached the point where sleep was all she wanted; she needed to wallow, to brood, and to suppress.

From below her perch, voices woofed in imposing tones. These voices drowned out the laughter of children, which had been the noise that ushered her off to sleep earlier that morning. She cursed them all and threw off her covers.

She inched her way to the railing and peered through the slats. Her fellow survivors, both civilians and soldiers, flooded in through the front door of the church, apparently done with the day's pilfering. Those who had stayed behind parted, clinging to the walls to avoid the oncoming herd.

The convoy thinned to a trickle as the last stragglers sauntered in, walking much slower than the rest, appearing to make an effort to take in the sights around them as if they weren't sure if they would ever see their compatriots again. She recognized many of them from her countless nights at The Pit. Her mind took a roll call: Mike Studebaker, Scott McCray, Mo Thompson, James Conroy, and last but not least...

She yelped and brought her balled fists to her eyes, praying they weren't deceiving her. When her sockets were sufficiently sore, she peered through the railing again and her spirits lifted.

There he stood. the one she had been seeing in her dreams, a man-child named Josh who had a shy streak a mile wide and hung out with a pair of loudmouthed yet mostly nice friends. Josh positioned himself apart from the pack, beside old man Conroy, his complexion as green as fresh seaweed. Even in that sickly-looking state, he appeared as beautiful and sensitive as he had in her sleep. Suddenly, she couldn't breathe.

She crawled over to Stacy, who was somehow still dozing in the sleeping bag next to hers. She had to fight the urge to shake her friend awake. Everything in her wanted to unload on a trusted ear the thoughts that raced through her mind and the desire that bubbled between her legs, but when she looked down at her friend, whose eyes were shut tight, and then at Little Roger, who was cuddled up on her chest, she thought better of it. Instead she scurried to her knapsack, threw open the flap, and tore through its contents in search of clothes that didn't smell like they'd been washed in pond water.

_Don't be a fool_ , her pathetic inner voice admonished. _You're too old. You're damaged goods. This might be the end of the goddamn world. Why in the hell would he want_ you _?_

"Get out of my head," she replied, and kept on searching.

She finally found something appropriate. It was a navy blue, long-sleeved blouse and a pair of one-size-too-small jeans whose sides were lined with sequins. They were shoddy, but they didn't reek. She stripped out of her sweats in record time. The cold set her body shivering. It didn't matter. She couldn't stop smiling.

•     •     •

Josh followed James Conroy through the church. People huddled in small groups all around him, most of whom he recognized. Children hid beneath the adults' legs, watching the procession with wide, fearful eyes and shaking limbs. He empathized with how these little ones must be feeling. They'd been ripped from their homes and forced to dwell in this cold, stone refuge, with nothing but the shirts on their backs, and only a few had the familiar faces of their parents for comfort. He felt sick from the thought of their plight.

The retrieval party maneuvered to the stage and gathered around. General Stack climbed the steps and conversed with his men. They handed sheets of paper back and forth; they whispered and passed furtive glances at the crowd. Josh leaned against the wall on the perimeter of the assembly. James Conroy stayed by his side. His hand remained on Josh's shoulder like that of a supportive grandfather.

"You're sure?" Josh heard Stack say to one of the soldiers. The young man nodded. Stack faced the congress.

"I'm going to make this short," Stack declared. "The town is close to purified. My men have just informed me that only pockets of reanimated dead remain, and there are no Wraiths to be seen. This means that, with the firepower we have, we should be able to dispatch the rest of them by the end of the day. This is the first step, people. We are well on our way."

A thin, unshaven man stepped to the front of the civilian pack. "What _about_ the Wraiths? Where'd they go?"

Stack waved his hand, seeming annoyed. "I was getting to that. According to our intelligence, they've evacuated. The unit trailing them said they have gathered in a township quite close to here. Berwick, Maine, to be exact."

"Why?" someone else inquired.

"I don't have a clue," snapped the General. "Could be they're preparing for another strike. Maybe they're in full retreat and simply gathering supplies, like we were. Who knows? I don't give a fuck either way. All that matters is that _they're all in the same place_ , which means they're ripe for the picking."

Stack's lips curled up. "Anyone else?" he said with a sarcastic tone. When no one spoke, he glanced at the slip of paper in his hand and said, "Then that's it. After the supply excursion today, we'll have enough provisions to last at least a couple of weeks. Three-quarters will be loaded into the vehicles we intend to take on this mission. The other quarter will stay here. Alice Carpenter and Judy Gould have volunteered to oversee housekeeping duties while we're away. All of those who stay behind will be expected to assist in these endeavors. As for the rest of you..." He pointed to the young soldier beside him, the one who had handed him the sheet of paper. "Sergeant Davis will debrief you all on what's required. Weapons training, rudimentary field medicine—whatever you need. We'll be taking small groups to the Sacristy over the next couple hours for this very purpose. Please be patient."

He paused and dropped his eyes. When Josh caught them again, they glimmered with arrogance. "We will be departing at oh-three-hundred, people," he announced. "We'll get them at dawn. When they least expect it."

The crowd exploded in a chorus of gasps and cheers. A few women started crying and pleading with their husbands or boyfriends or sons, who in turn did their best to calm the hysterical women down. The General turned on his heels and exited the stage, apparently disinterested by this display, and disappeared through the door that led the back room.

Josh couldn't believe what he'd just heard. It seemed not only unreal, but unfeasible. Everything inside him insisted that he should panic, but that otherworldly calm he'd felt earlier, while he was maneuvering through the ruined streets of Dover, reared its head again. _You have to think of your family_ , it said. _This is not the place for you. It isn't safe here._ He glanced at James and saw that the old man was frowning.

A woman's voice rose above the crowd, calling James Conroy's name. The sad eyes of his friend sparked with new life. He waved across the sea of people at a frumpy old lady with dyed, pitch-black hair.

"Who's that?" asked Josh.

"My wife."

"Oh, I don't think I ever met her. Sandra, right?"

"Yup. She's my rock, kiddo. I don't know what I'd do without her."

"So, what _are_ you going to do? I mean, with this militia and all."

James looked at him. There were tears in his eyes.

"Join them," he said.

Josh nodded and thought of the war stories Mr. Conroy used to tell him, and also the twinkle of memory that would flash in his eye as the old man remembered friends long lost.

_Of course you are_ , he thought.

•     •     •

Kyra watched Josh from across the room. She noted each motion he made while he spoke with James and Sandra Conroy, from the way one corner of his mouth rose when he laughed to the odd angle his posture took on when he seemed uncomfortable. She wanted more than anything to march over to him, grab him by the shoulders, and kiss him. She felt like she used to when she was a young girl, when she would sit and stare at whichever young boy had caught her eye, all the while wishing he would notice her secret passion because she was too afraid to tell him herself.

She reached down and caressed her thigh. Her insides tingled at the touch, even through the denim covering her legs, sending invisible bolts of electricity that entered the pit of her stomach, coursed through her abdomen, and ignited the passion below. She closed her eyes and pictured them lying naked together, their bodies moving to the same unheard beat while the sweet aroma of their combined odors filled the air. A groan parted her lips. She moved her hand inward, an act that the socially conscious part of her sensed was inappropriate. The opposing part, the corner of her being that had seen his face during sleep for much of the past week, thought differently. _There is nothing wrong with a little excitement_ , it said. _Everyone needs some affection now and then. You deserve some happiness._

She thought of the dreams. They were variations on a single theme: the two of them together, meandering along sparkling ocean water in a nameless tropical paradise. She could almost feel his hand in hers and experienced the combined strength and softness of his fingers. _I want this. I_ need _this._

Kyra gulped, swallowed whatever apprehension remained, and started walking. She didn't care if it all turned out to be nothing but fantasy. She had to give the possibility, and the hope, a chance.

It was all she had left.

•     •     •

Excited butterflies suddenly fluttered in Josh's gut. It was an odd sensation, as if he'd fallen asleep and now floated through space on a separate metaphysical plane than the rest of humanity. He went with the feeling even though there seemed to be no reason for it, enjoying the lightness until a painful poke in the arm interrupted his trance. It brought him back down to earth as quickly as he'd left.

"Huh?" he said, dazed.

James gazed at him, cockeyed. "You still with us, kiddo?"

Josh shook his head. "Uh, yeah. Sorry about that. You were saying?"

"We're heading out back," said James as he took his wife's hand. "Are you sure you're not going to stay?"

"No. I mean, yes, I'm sure." He shook his coat. The bottles of liquid trapped in his pocket swished. "I've asked around. There's no one here that even resembles a doctor, and I have to get this stuff back to Sophia before she gets worse. And besides, this place is honestly a hell of a lot less comfortable than the cellar. I know that sounds strange, but it's true."

"It's all right, Josh. We have to take care of our families. I get it. But how're you going to get back?"

"The soldiers pretty much told me no way, so I'll hike it, I guess."

James shook his head. "No. That won't do." He reached into his pocket, took out a set of keys, and handed them to Josh. "My car's parked down the hill. Take that. It'll be safer."

"The Volvo? Really? But you've had that thing for years. It's your baby."

The old man winked. "For you, kiddo? Anything."

"Thanks, Mister C. I owe you one."

James smiled and then he and Sandra walked away. Josh felt fidgety as he watched them depart. It had been no more than an hour since they'd arrived in the place, and yet that already seemed too long. He observed those around him and felt disconnected. Depression overcame him. In a space jam-packed with people, he'd never felt so alone, or so uncertain.

_I have to get going... ‌in a minute._

He leaned against the wall and shut his eyes. Deep down, he had a sneaking suspicion that he'd never see Mr. C again. The weight of this threatened to crush him. It felt like his brain had been locked in a Chinese thumb-torture device—the harder he tried to yank the sadness out of him, the greater the pressure became. He couldn't keep hold of a consistent line of thinking, such as remembering the way home. _I just need to rest_ , he concluded, amazed he could hold this thought before it drifted away. _I haven't slept right in weeks. Once I get home, once Sophia's better, I'll pass out for a month. I'll go Rip van Winkle on their asses. That should do it._

A tender substance that felt like satin brushed against his neck and he smiled. For a moment he forgot where he was and began to drift. He gazed at the stars in the darkness behind his eyelids, a sensation of flying overcoming him.

Outside, in the real world, another force beckoned him to come back to earth. It came in the form of a spoken word, his name, the tone soft and sweet.

"Josh?"

He opened his eyes slowly, and when his hazy vision brightened he saw a female face. The hair surrounding that face was wavy and the color of a rusty Radio Flyer wagon, and the lips were full and slightly chapped. Creased lines of age surrounded two intense, green-blue eyes. These eyes stared at him in a quizzical squint.

He knew the face, and the hair, and the lips, and the eyes. A serene sort of reverie came over him. Just seeing her, he found it hard to think of anything else.

"Hey, Kye," he said, his voice sounding far away.

She nodded in response, but didn't say anything more. Neither did he. They simply gazed at each other, handing out well wishes and thank-God-you're-okays without need of sound. Here she was, a woman he had barely spoken to over the two years he'd known her, and yet he felt captivated, almost trapped by her presence. He sensed the quickening beat of her heart and the faint whisper of air as it passed through her lungs, soothing and constant. He wondered if she could sense the same things in him as he sensed in her.

Josh blinked, and the wistfulness crumbled. Kyra shivered, her once-relaxed shoulders tensing. Josh forced a grin. His head was still in a fog and he suddenly couldn't think of anything to say.

Kyra reached out and brushed his shoulder with her fingers. He trembled and let his eyes wander downward, noticing the smooth line of her neck, the rise of her small breasts, and the exaggerated curve of her hips. He remembered how hard it had been for him in the past to speak with her, and realized that she intimidated him with her overt sexuality. Many nights he would fantasize about her before falling asleep, creating scenarios in his mind where she gave in to his every desire. He recalled cursing those thoughts but also welcoming them, and fully accepting the guilt that followed.

Now, however, he felt none of that. There was no shame. There was no nervousness. There was no fear. All he felt was a hushed, irritating confusion, as if some cosmic hypnotist had coaxed his mind into compliance.

"Are you okay?" asked Kyra.

"Sure," he said. His voice again sounded faint.

"It's good to see you."

"Same here."

She pulled her hand away and stared at him again. Her head tilted and she bit her lip. She seemed to radiate disappointment.

_Don't be a dope_ , a small inner voice said. _You always told Colin how much you thought of her. Go get her. She's obviously into you. What are you waiting for?_

He leaned forward, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her small body into his. Her curves pressed into his chest and pelvis and she gasped. Josh smiled and put his lips to the nape of her neck. _Savor this. You need it._

Savor it, he did. Her soft flesh tickled his dry lips. He breathed through his nose, smelling the blended aromas of sweat and perfume. She swayed in his grasp, snaking her hips as if dancing to a Latin beat. He surrendered to it, forcing back his despair and misgivings through carnal delight.

After a while he pulled back, held her by the shoulders, and gazed at her smiling face. Tears ran down her cheeks and her eyes sparkled. In that moment he realized she had needed that touch of warmth, that touch of ardor, as much as he.

"Hey," he said. His cheeks flushed.

"Hey, yourself."

"It's been a while, Kye."

"Too long."

"So...‌what have you been up to?"

"Nothing much. Hiding in the loft, I guess. Oh, and being scared shitless."

He chuckled. "I hear you on that one."

"I've missed you."

For a split second, a part of him wanted to blurt out that he hadn't thought of her once since this whole thing started, but he thankfully decided against it. "Me, too," he said instead.

Kyra removed his hands from her arms and leaned into him, pressing her face into his chest. "Holy shit, Josh," she said. "I've been dreaming about you nonstop for a week now. It's unreal that you're here. Thank you."

The lingering euphoria he'd experienced only moments before dissipated. Her neediness made him uncomfortable. His sympathetic side wanted to reciprocate, to give her whatever she wanted, but his thoughts eventually turned to Sophia and his parents. They were all alone and awaiting his return. He didn't have time for this. He pushed her away, gently, and held her at arm's length.

"I'm, uh, grateful, I guess," he said. "But I have to go."

Kyra's expression sullied. "What? Why?"

"Sophia's sick. My folks are waiting. They're probably worried. I gotta get back to them."

"But...‌you just got here."

"I know, but things are what they are."

"Can I come with you?"

He gulped in an attempt to swallow his empathy, and then stepped away. "Sorry, Kye, but no," he said. "I don't need you there. And I have more important things than you to look after right now."

He turned around and briskly walked away, listening to Kyra's dejected groans as he strode past the gathered crowd of townsfolk. He tried to ignore it.

_Just like the rest of them,_ scolded his conscience. _Just like Mrs. Flannigan and the seventh graders. Leave 'em behind and let 'em fend for themselves. I wonder what happened to them? They're not here. They're probably dead, just like everyone else. It's all your fault. You're a coward._

Josh shook his head and walked out the front door. The cold of the afternoon bit at his skin.

"It's not my fault," he muttered. "My family needs me. I can't let them down again."

## CHAPTER 15

### COMING 'ROUND THE MOUNTAIN

"Daddy, where we going?" asked Shelly in her chipmunk's voice from the back seat.

"On vacation," Tom answered. Allison squeezed his hand, but he didn't look at her.

"We there yet?"

"Soon, baby girl. Soon."

The Beamer sped down abandoned side roads, rumbling whenever the pavement disintegrated into hard-packed dirt. They'd been traveling for three hours now, with a specific destination in mind. Tom pressed the pedal down as far as it would go. In many ways, he felt Shelly's pain. He wanted more than anything just to reach their objective, to leave the devastation behind them forever.

There were no roadblocks to be seen (not that he really expected them, for he had done his job well and there would be no personnel available to man one), but considering the condition of the highway they had recently turned off of—whose lanes were packed with traffic and the remnants of far too many recent accidents—he considered it a possibility that there _could_ be an obstruction around any corner. He wondered what would happen if that were the case. The Beamer handled like a dream, but it was still a huge automobile, which made sudden stops nearly impossible. Should that happen, the hulk of steel and fiberglass would fold like an accordion. Their journey would end right then and there.

_Some risks are necessary_ , he thought, and kept the pedal pressed down.

He glanced to his right. Allison was in the passenger seat, her gaze fixed straight ahead. She looked like a young woman in the throes of childbirth, with her lips pressed together and her neck pulled taut. She didn't look at him, just as she hadn't asked any questions, not when he said they were leaving, not when ignored the soldiers' shouts for him to stop as he plowed his prized car through Fort Myer's front gate, and not when he hopped onto the westbound highway. This wasn't an unusual occurrence. Like so many daughters of old Connecticut money, Allison possessed the quizzical compliance of a trained monkey when it came to her husband. _Daddy knows best_ , taken to the extreme. Ever since the day they had their first clandestine encounter at a hotel in Philadelphia when Allison was nineteen, she hadn't once doubted his decisions. She trusted him completely, as much out of conditioning as pure conviction. It was this absolute belief of hers in his ability and his resolve that drove a portion of his guilt.

_If she only knew._

There were other factors dragging him down, as well, but the fact that he was alone inside his head held precedence over all else. After dispatching Carl Pendergrass, the voice of his director had abandoned him. He now operated on the strength of his judgment alone, which worried him. He felt forsaken, disillusioned, and ill equipped, like a two-year-old trying to learn trigonometry. He wondered if those wonderful feelings would return to help guide him once more. Like a junkie clawing at his fix as it lay imprisoned behind a wall of glass, he needed it.

_Come on, Thomas_ , his old confidence declared. _You did it on your own your whole life. What is so different now?_

"Everything," he said with a sigh.

"Huh?"

He looked at Allison again. She was staring at him now, her eyes filled with unease.

"Nothing," he replied. "Don't pay any attention to me. I'm just talking to myself."

She nodded and turned to face the road again. Shelly continued to bounce along in the back, talking to the doll in her lap as if it were an actual person. That doll might as well have been Tom, for he felt removed from them and artificial, as if he existed in a separate reality. With his self-confidence waning, the notion didn't strike him as erroneous.

The Beamer crossed the state line into Virginia. Thomas recognized this by the signature old shack (a decrepit gas station that had been out of service since the fifties) that appeared to his left. The Steinberg family had taken this route at least once a summer for the past six years. It was common. It was comfortable. He noticed Allison's cheeks flush red with excitement. She knew where they were going, as well, and he could almost read her thoughts. _Finally, comfort! A fireplace, a nice big bed, and exquisite food. Thank God!_ He smiled at the image; as long as his doting wife could lay her head down in seclusion and luxury, he knew she wouldn't think of all the horrible events going on around them. This meant that Tom could wait patiently for the return of his master without the discomfort of her disappointment, without the possibility that she might pry and unearth his secrets.

Shelly noticed the shift in her mother's mood and sang, "I-love-my-daddy-I-love-my-daddy-I-love-him-really-BIG!" Her brown curls flailed as she bounced in her booster seat. "And-I-love-my-mommy-too!"

The innocence in her voice was nauseating.

## CHAPTER 16

### DOING WHAT HAS TO BE DONE

The old volvo bounced as Josh weaved around the skeletons of burned-out cars on a road peppered with steaming divots. His nerves wreaked havoc on his psyche, which played a sadistic game of _what you could have done differently._ It told him that he had waited too long to return, that his efforts were all for naught.

"That's not true," he whispered. "Everything's gonna be fine."

He turned the corner, a mile from his parents' home. A lone figure wandered aimlessly down the center of the road. Whoever it was ambled in a drunken wobble, facing away from him. He tried to swerve around the moving obstacle, but at the last moment the figure turned. A thing that looked like a man stared back at him, its face a tangled mess of scars and rot.

"Holy shit!" Josh screeched, and cut the wheel. The Volvo clipped the man-thing and its body became like a rag doll, twisting along the side of the vehicle in a jumble of whipping arms and legs. Its head smashed into the window on the driver's side and the glass disintegrated. Blood sprayed into the cab, splattering his face and chest. Josh winced and the body vaulted away with a thud, rolling down the median behind him.

He wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. "Oh my God, oh my God," he panted. The whole of him shook while he tried to steady the wheel. His heart thumped much too quickly. The image of the man's spoiled features wouldn't leave him, erasing any notion he may have had of stopping to see if he'd killed the guy. He remembered the heap of bodies General Stack had shown him in the supermarket freezer. _The unfortunate ones_ , he'd called them. Josh began to tremble. If one of _them_ had entered the house after he left, if his father had decided it seemed safe enough to venture outside, then...

"Stop it!" he screamed, and struck the steering wheel with his fist. It was best not to think of such things, just keep on driving.

He passed the home he shared with Colin, which was as dark as the other houses on the street and hopefully just as empty. He pushed the Volvo as fast as it could go. It would only be a few more seconds.

Around the next corner he sped. He was going too fast and his chest clenched when the tires on the left side came up off the ground. He straightened the steering wheel with a jerk and the vehicle regained stability. The damaged suspension struggled to stay intact.

He pulled up on the lawn in front of his childhood home, stepped out of the car, and listened. The wind blowing through the virtually leafless trees was all he could hear. The place seemed desolate and the light of day only added to its barrenness. He remembered the nightmares of his youth, dreams where he'd been cast off in a strange and frightful world, all alone, with no parents to protect him while unseen horrors awaited, hidden in every darkened corner. He would wake up screaming and run into his mother's arms for comfort afterward. He felt the same way now.

The front door was open and he approached it, hoping he had forgotten to close it on his way out but not believing that was the case. Again he shuddered. He walked inside.

"Mom? Dad?"

The late afternoon sun flickered in through the shattered windows, illuminating the interior enough to cast eerie silhouettes, haunting the murky boundaries between light and dark. The curtains were heaped in piles below the windows. They flapped when a cold breeze gusted through.

Josh crept down the hall and into the kitchen. The place was just as big a mess as when he left, with dishes smashed on the tile floor and the refrigerator toppled over, but there was no one there. He shook from the combined forces of the cold and his fear. From beneath the sink he removed a candle, just as his mother had not so long ago.

The living room was the next stop on his journey. He tiptoed in and hastily scanned in all directions, but it, too, was deserted. He closed his eyes and listened. Other than the howling wind, he couldn't hear anything. In his mind this meant there was only one possible solution; everyone was still safely stowed away in the cellar.

Josh turned the knob on the basement door. The release clicked, echoing through the house. The door swung open and he peered down the steps into the blackness. The oddly sweet scent of body odor drifted into his nostrils. He took his lighter from the pocket of his jeans, lit the candle, and descended into the abyss.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and cupped his hand over the dancing yellow flame. The candle proved to be an unstable light source. Its direct brightness almost blinded him, yet a small sphere of radiance was all it provided. He found himself wishing he'd taken the time to find a flashlight.

He moved each foot cautiously and stepped into the room. Once more he listened for signs of life; once more he heard nothing.

The couch he'd sat upon with Sophia only a couple hours before came into view, brightened by the candle's ghostly light. A lump appeared, as if someone was sleeping on it. The closer he and the feeble glow drew, the clearer the image became. It was a body, lying on its side, facing away from him. He recognized the slacks and the blue camisole, both gifts he'd purchased the previous Christmas.

"Mom?" he whispered, kneeling beside the couch and placing his hand on his mother's head of curly black hair. The candle flickered, and for a second he thought he saw her shrug. A sigh of relief exhaled from his lungs.

"Thank God, Mom," he said. "Wake up, Mom. Mom?"

His mother didn't answer, so he nudged her with his elbow. There was still no response. He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her in his direction. Her body rolled unexpectedly. He didn't anticipate it and couldn't support her weight. She fell off the couch and knocked him over as she dropped to the thinly carpeted concrete floor. Josh lost control of the candle and hot wax spilled from its basin, scalding his hand. He yelped in pain. Gail Benoit did nothing.

He shook his burnt hand and sat forward, his body trembling. "M...‌Mom?" he said. He lifted the candle once more and held it over her. His stomach reeled, and for the second time that day he threw up.

His mother's eyes stared into space, unblinking, her lips sagging to one side in a sickening grimace. The camisole covering her torso had been ripped open and a canyon of red, gnawed flesh stretched from her neck to her bellybutton. The wetness of her exposed innards glistened in the candlelight. Josh cowered. He felt sick all over again, but by some feat of will he didn't give in.

A sound rose from nothingness: an alien, childlike laugh. Josh wheeled around. The rest of the room appeared empty, the loveseat opposite him holding no ghastly surprise. He rose up on a pair of shaky knees.

"Sophia?" he whispered between sobs. "Rascal?" No one replied to him. His insides were consumed with anguish. It threatened to squeeze in on him, to make him useless.

He stumbled across the basement. His foot caught on the edge of the rug and he almost fell. The snicker came once more, louder this time. He moved toward it, heading for the door that had been cut into the crude wall of sheetrock his father had erected years before, the wall that separated the play area from the noisy rattle of the furnace and hot water heater on the other side.

He pushed open the door and leaned against the frame. The wall arched a bit with his weight against it, but the sturdy two-by-fours held. He poked his head in. As the candle slowly lit the space, a large blob emerged, a warped figure that changed shape with each flicker.

Despite his fear and sorrow, he inched forward. The image grew clearer. It was not one form but two. One was that of a man, lying flat on his back. The other was a smaller, impish female with long, straight hair. This second figure squatted on the prone man's chest, dark strands of a substance that looked like wet strips of paper hanging from her lips and dangling below her chin. Her head jerked up and she stared at him. He recognized her features, for they were as familiar to him as his own. Josh felt light-headed. The girl before him appeared primitive and unnatural, but there was something astonishingly gentle, even inquisitive, about the tilt of her head, the slump of her shoulders, and the shape of those glowering eyes.

Josh stepped back, his mind racing. He looked again at the unmoving man, whose face was obstructed by the girl on his mangled chest. He didn't need to see its face to know whose it was.

"Fuck," was all he could say.

The girl jumped from her roost on his father's torso the way a monkey would, with legs bowed and back arched. She waddled toward Josh, her arms flopping between her legs, again monkey-like. He froze. She stopped only a few inches in front of him and rolled her neck. Dried blood, black as oil in the faint light, covered her face. Her hair was also saturated, making the top of her head look like it was covered with wet spaghetti. Her lower jaw was slightly elongated and her brow distended, but he could still see the beauty there. His throat clenched and tears rolled down his face. He reached out and caressed her cheek. She pulled away but didn't flee. Instead she rubbed into his hand the way a cat would. His tears flowed harder. When he spoke, he could barely hear his own words.

"Oh shit, Rascal."

Josh's wits left him. It was as if he'd regressed into infancy the moment he touched her. He lingered, helpless, with his mind an empty shell, until a voice sang to him in a saccharine lullaby. _Calm down, sweet boy_ , it said, _you know we all love you._ The weight of his fear and despair became too much to take. He gave in to the voice and its sweetness, becoming a baby who walked across the basement's cold floor, guided by his guardian's steadying hand, grateful for the temporary relief it gave him.

He watched his body perform its function without debate. He took Sophia by the arm and led her up the stairs. She didn't resist his urging. That singsong voice continued to play in his head, but the lyrics had changed.

_Do not be afraid; she cannot hurt you; she will not hurt you_ , it said.

Despite the late hour, the vividness of the bright autumn day still clung to the sky. Josh blew out the candle and placed it on the kitchen table. He steered Sophia to the sink, positioned her against the counter, and turned on the faucet. The spigot belched and shook, and then a steady stream of water cascaded out. _At least the plumbing still works_ , his spellbound brain thought.

Sophia stared at him while he took the dishrag from its drawer beside the sink, twisted it like a cruller, and wet one end. Her head dipped from one side to the other. When Josh squeezed the excess moisture from the towel and faced her, the motion stopped.

He brought the washcloth to her cheek and rubbed the dirt and blood from her skin. The pure, rose-colored flesh of a teenage girl emerged. He smiled and continued working, washing the viscera from her forehead. She squinted. He thought she looked confused.

"There you are," he said. Even with her slightly misshapen features and the small lumps that speckled her exposed flesh, she was still his sister. He still loved her.

He leaned in to kiss her brow, but she moved her head before his lips touched her. A low, rasping groan rose up in her throat. Her hand swept up, as if she were about to strike him, but instead of slamming against the side of his face she slid a distorted palm from his cheek, to his neck, and then to his shoulder. Next, she withdrew and held her hand out in front of him. Blood dripped off her fingers, the blood of the dead man he'd run over only a half-hour earlier. Turning her attention away from him, she stuck her dripping digits into her mouth and sucked on them.

An emotion his waning consciousness could only classify as displeasure surfaced. He frowned and watched the monstrosity Sophia had become lick the blood from her fingers with an appalling, discolored tongue. All of her youthful innocence washed away, and left in its wake was an unrecognizable and primal beast, a creature that lapped up every last drop as a starving coyote would. His inner child screamed. He wanted to run away, to scamper off into the sunset of some other world and leave the death and unfairness of this one behind.

_You cannot leave things like this._

Josh blinked. "Huh?"

_You know what must be done._

He stepped away from Sophia and whirled around. The kitchen was empty.

_Darling_ , the voice in his head stated, _do not be difficult._

Josh squinted in the direction of the passage between the kitchen and the front entrance. The slowly fading sunlight ceased to shine a few feet in front of the opening, creating a dark chasm. He swore he saw a figure there.

"Who's that?" he asked, and took a step forward.

The intruder didn't reply but seemed to glide, approaching the lighted area but never emerging from the shadows. Bizarre tendrils of long, flowing hair hovered around a woman's form, whose features he couldn't define. Its image became faint, solid, and then faint again, like a hologram held together by a waning power source.

"Who are you?" asked Josh, feeling dizzy.

_It does not matter_ , replied the lady in the shadows.

Sophia grunted behind him and he turned around. Her face had twisted into a mystified expression. He wondered if she could see the woman, as well.

The shadow woman repeated her mantra: _You know what must be done._

An odd sensation overtook him. The world blurred and his dizziness became vertigo. "I'm...‌sorry," he muttered while covering his eyes. "I...‌don't...‌know."

_Yes, you do. You have always known. Look deep down. You will see._

"I don't want to."

_You have to._

"Please...‌don't make me."

_You do not have a choice._

Josh began to sob. He sensed that he was far away and fading. Suddenly he knew exactly what the intruder sought, and it was something he didn't want.

"I can't," he wailed. "I won't."

_You must_ , the woman said. Her image backed away from him and dissipated into the atmosphere. With a fleeting, sigh-like whimper, his lungs filled up with air.

_I will help you._

Josh watched his own hand open the silverware drawer and remove a steak knife. He wanted to scream _NO_ , but the desire to do so faded. He held the knife in the palm of his hand and stared at it as if he'd never seen anything so strange in all his life, while Sophia gazed at him with naïve adoration. Her glistening red lips curled into a grin that may have appeared innocent under any other circumstance. The purity of the sight made Josh's waking mind cry out in protest.

_Stop this!_

"I can't," he said. "I have to."

He lunged at his sister, arms outstretched. He collided with her, forced her down to the debris-covered linoleum floor, and pinned her shoulders to the ground with his knees. She struggled beneath him, barking in hoarse grunts. Her flailing legs struck his back but he couldn't feel it. He was beyond physical sensation by then.

Josh held the knife in both hands like a dagger and positioned its tip above her right eye. The blade shimmered in the last rays of sunlight she would ever see. The eye beneath the tip bulged with either fear or hatred—the influence steering him didn't say which, and he got the feeling it really didn't care.

With a swift downward stroke he plunged the knife into her eyeball. The soft membrane above the cornea parted as the cutting edge sank in. Clear fluid poured out. Sophia's screams of protest intensified, as did her struggle. He pushed it in deeper, until the oily liquid rolled over his hands. A popping came next, and the eyeball burst. The fluid went from clear to a watered-down shade of red. Sophia writhed, but her resistance started to fade along with her shrieks. When he finally pushed the knife in all the way to the faux-wooden handle, stopping only when the tip scraped against the backside of her cranium, her body shook with a final death rattle and came to a halt.

Josh slid off his sister's corpse, slumped on the floor beside her, and yanked the knife from her eye socket. Strands of optic nerve were still fixed to the blade. He grimaced at the gurgling sound the deflated eye made when he withdrew and tossed the knife up over the counter and into the sink. It clanked on the metal washbasin. The persuasion that steered him told his hand to stroke her matted hair, and he did just that, caressing her like a lover and never taking his eyes off her formerly cherubic face.

His mind was released, and his thoughts were his own again. All his pent-up fear, all his wrenching sorrow, hit him at once. His body stiffened as he felt the invader try to sneak its way back inside. He kept it at bay.

"No!" he screamed. "Let me have this!"

In those moments after the deed, he experienced everything: Sophia as a baby, and the prickly sensation that ran down his forearm the first time he held her tiny form; the day she lost her first tooth and the way she looked at him, lips parted in a gap-toothed grin, when she told him in her excited, four-year-old voice that now the tooth fairy would come for _her_ ; the fear she confided in him when her hormones matured and she received the dreaded, once-a-month gift of femininity for the first time; the hot summer afternoon only three months ago, when he confronted Skip Clarkson, a boy five years Sophia's elder, who had touched her in the most inappropriate of ways, and sensed the relief and shame she expressed when he displayed for her his blood-covered knuckles after the deed had been done.

To cap it all off, he saw her in bed during the evening that would end up being the last meaningful interaction between them. He felt her body as he held her and saw the sorrow in her eyes as she lamented the loss of her cousin and best friend. He sensed her doubt when he restated his promise that never, in a million years, would he ever let any harm come to her. It had been an unrealistic promise, one he couldn't keep. His grief, and the driving burden that threatened to turn his insides out, took full control. It erupted from his tear ducts, from the snot that flowed from his nose, and from his sniveling gasps for air. He threw his head back and roared at the ceiling.

"Why...‌ _FUCK!_ "

Josh collapsed in a heap, his hand still entwined in a knot of Sophia's hair. He bawled long and hard, his body shaking out of control. There would be no more happy times, he told himself. Those were all gone. There was nothing but death now, death and the suffocating weight of his guilt. His parents were dead, his sister was dead, and it was his fault.

As daylight passed and the moon took its place, Josh still didn't move. He was in the only place he wanted to be, the place he'd known as home for the entirety of his life, the place where he was always welcomed with open, loving arms.

It was also a place where he wasn't needed any longer. That fact hit him the hardest.

•     •     •

It was quiet, for the most part. The only sounds to be heard were the snores of those sleeping in the space below. Their grunts and nasal congestion conspired to keep her away from sleep, or at least that was what she told herself.

Kyra pulled her sleeping bag up to her neck and shivered. She wasn't sure of the time, but the familiar crick in her neck and her dry, burning eyes told her it was probably around four in the morning. The raiding party, under the guidance of General Stack, had departed an hour or so before. " _Doing our part to rid the world of this plague on humanity_ ," the General had said. Kyra chuckled, though she felt no humor at all when she did so. She wondered if they would be okay. In her heart, she knew the answer already.

This wasn't what kept her awake either, though. Her _real_ bane was the memory of her encounter with Josh Benoit earlier that day. She scrunched her nose and tried to figure out where she had gone wrong. _Was I too forward? Did I say the wrong thing? Does he just not want me?_ She shook her head. It just didn't seem right. She recalled how he'd kissed her neck and felt again the ardor he emitted. He was like a batch of sexual plutonium in the moment, and yet he'd seemed disinterested in her after that.

She told herself she was selfish. That _had_ to be the reason. He'd told her about his family, how he needed to get back to them. Who was she to keep him away? It made her realize how unimportant she was, but a part of her didn't care. She simply wished to be granted the solace of being able to cry herself to sleep, because in the end the reality of her dream was as firm as a flaccid noodle, just like the rest of her life. This knowledge hurt.

_He just used you, like you've used every other man in your life_ , her guilt chided. _How's it feel to be on the other end?_

Frustration caused her legs to tingle. She wasn't falling asleep any time soon and his image wouldn't go away, no matter how much she tried to make it so. She sat up, peered at Stacy and Little Roger to make sure they were still asleep, and grabbed the last cigarette from her pack. She glanced at the coffee can filled to the rim with butts and felt a twinge of shame, and then said _screw it_ and lit the end.

The front door opened, startling her. She yelped and dropped the cigarette, which rolled across the floor and fell through the crack beneath the balcony railing. She hoped there was no one sleeping below her to be burned by its glowing head. Footsteps followed, hesitant, shuffling strides, like someone trying to learn to walk again after a nasty accident. A child coughed. Kyra inched toward the balustrade and peered through the slats.

Josh stood in the center of the church, surrounded on all sides by sleeping bags and those dozing within them. He was alone and appeared dazed, looking around before taking a couple hobbling steps forward. Then he stopped, turned around, and went in the other direction. He did this over and over again, like a toy robot.

Kyra sat back. She couldn't say she was happy to see him, especially considering her current mindset, yet the thought that something was wrong caused a pang of concern within her. She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and stood up.

She descended the stairwell and entered the main chamber, the door booming when it closed behind her. Many stirred in their sleep, but Josh didn't react. He still teetered with his back to her.

"Josh?" she said, cautiously.

He didn't answer.

She weaved through the bundles of sleeping people. When she got closer she noticed he was shaking. She tapped his shoulder.

"Josh?"

He turned slowly. His eyes weren't the kind ones she remembered. They were alive with something darker now, burning the way Justin's eyes burned the night he hit her—the eyes of a madman. His cheeks were dirty and marked with dried tears, and there was blood on his coat and neck. She took a guarded step backward.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," he replied in a rough and choppy voice.

"Okay," she said. "Where have you been?"

"Nowhere."

Kyra sighed. All that waiting, all that hoping, and her payoff was for this man, who was really no more than a kid to her, to brush her aside as if she didn't matter. She couldn't accept that sort of behavior, not anymore. She wanted to help him, but she would only go so far if he didn't want to accept it. _I have no time for games_ , the irritated voice of her maturity said, though the reality was that he was beginning to scare her.

"Fine," she replied with a huff. "When you feel like being an adult, I'll be upstairs. Before then, why don't you go sit in the corner and mope."

"Fuck you."

Kyra's eyes narrowed. "What did you say to me?"

His brow furrowed with anger. "You heard me."

"You know what?" she said with a befuddled laugh. "I don't need this shit. I try to be helpful, and you swear at me. Whatever. I didn't piss you off, Josh. I don't know why you're giv—"

"You don't know a fucking thing!" he screamed, taking a step in her direction. Kyra looked around nervously. People were starting to wake up.

"Just...‌just calm down," she said in a shaky voice.

"Calm down? _Calm down!_ What the fuck do you know, bitch? You know what happened to me tonight? My family's dead, Mrs. Holcomb. That's right. _My whole fucking family's dead!_ You wanna help me? How the _fuck_ you gonna do that? _You can't!_ "

He turned from her and stormed away, throwing open the door to the old sacristy with so much force that the frame cracked. It swung closed behind him, and a minute later the sound of his bawling echoed through the church's spacious interior. Kyra stood dead still, staring at the door and listening to that painful cry. She wondered again how she could be so stupid, so selfish.

"What happened?" someone asked. Kyra looked to the loft entrance. Stacy was standing there, her hair a knotted mess, Little Roger fussing in her arms. Something then thumped Kyra's foot and she glanced down to see Alice Carpenter, housewife hairdo and all, wide awake and staring at her. The woman yawned.

"Yeah, what's going on?"

Kyra brought her eyes back to the door. Her dreams seemed so far away.

"I just made things worse," she said.

## CHAPTER 17

### NETHERWORLD

Set before his timelessness, the hallway expanded and contracted. Walls that weren't really there swelled like a giant, ethereal lung. The air was heavy with gray mist, the physical remnants of discarded notions. He rode their stream and glided through passageways, acting as the eternal cosmonaut in the universe of lost souls. The place was much larger than he remembered, a snaking network of interlocking rooms and channels that never seemed to end.

There were so many more portals here than there ever had been before. The sheer numbers rocked his perception and threatened to make him lose focus. He tried to block out the magnitude, or at least condense the doorways into practical dimensions, but his corporeal memories denied him such advantages. How he hated being human, even partly so. It made accomplishing his goal that much harder.

A jolt of energy surged through him. What followed was a withering sensation, as if small pieces of him were being slowly chipped away. He'd experienced this sort of fragmentation many times in the past (it was a common occurrence for someone of his nature), but this time was different. There was a sense of urgency behind the pain, the siren's call of intelligence, indistinguishable to most earthly facilities, that he'd been awaiting for a long time.

His excitement grew as he glided through the vast corridors. He passed the endless rows of iridescent windows representing portals to various extensions of his ever-expanding lifeline. The apertures gleamed when he drew near them, their liquid panes shimmering with mystical energy. He felt his essence being drawn into them. It required a great amount of effort to bypass their magnetism, for he knew these passageways were inconsequential. His strength waned and his sense of self, of individuality, wavered. One moment he was perceptive, soaring through the netherworld with a distinct purpose; the next, he was any of a billion separate consciousnesses, each of whom struggled to gain a foothold and bring their consumed, integrated life-forces to the surface. Their names scrolled through his mind: Ken, Gabriella, Sharon, Ilsa, Robert, Ebenezer, Pablo, Mohammed, Samir, Yin, Guido, Abu. Above these were the windows of the second level, those of his seven sleepers like Tom Steinberg, individuals given the gift of his guidance without the restrictions inherent in his true children. He needed them to suffocate those immune to his influence, to help tear down the tower of life from the inside out, and even though he did not have total control over them, their thoughts invaded his mind with just as much potency. He hated them all, and yet needed every single one.

_I am not you_ , he chanted, repelling the barrage of thoughts. His own identity reemerged.

_I am I. I am Sam. There is no one else._

_How can you be sure of that_ , his emptiness retorted, _when you cannot even remember your real name?_

Sam shrugged off the invader. _Leave me alone. You mean nothing here._ He had to focus, had to find the source of his restlessness before it was too late. There was no time to argue with a concept he'd given up ages ago.

As a construct of pure will that existed underneath the ether that sheathed the physical world, the netherworld was _his_ place. It was the one dimension built for him and him alone, the landfill in which he stored those very souls that now cried for their freedom. It was his watchtower, the place where he could sit back, observe, and wait.

At last the portal revealed itself, beckoning to him with a rippling surface that possessed a deep red glow, the way every doorway blazed the moment before it blinked out of existence. He stopped before it and pushed the other portals aside.

The images behind the watery curtain were muddy and vague. He focused in an attempt to create a movie screen out of a knothole, but his efforts were fruitless. A large, looming figure, a ghost in the machine, was all he could see. He sighed through imaginary lips. There was only one way to find out for sure why this particular gateway was so important. His fingers pierced the membrane and he entered the void.

He passed through the conduit and was immersed in the exquisite medley of pain and suffering within, crossing the threshold between instinct and intellect on a lustrous shaft of light. The intricate system of sparkling, crisscrossed threads laying the groundwork of coherent thought was marvelous, even though the fibers had corroded by then, saturated by his caustic power. It never failed to make him proud each time he saw this phenomenon. To him, there had never been anything in all of creation more beautiful.

Synapses fired as he invaded the mind's web, generating sparks of electricity that bounced across invisible barriers and threatened to knock him off the beam. He understood that this could not happen, for _he_ was the one in control here, even when an embattled spirit and its defenses tried to tell him otherwise.

As he entered into awareness, his essence smiled. The ghost of this mind's prior resident cried out for the madness to stop. It was fully conscious of its body's actions and powerless to control its new nature, and yet this particular inner self still pulsated with strength. He tried to wedge his way into its memories, only to be greeted by a thick wall of resistance.

_That's odd_ , he thought. It wasn't often that the remnants of an underling's mind could stave him off.

After a short time, the resistance waned a bit and he was allowed to roam more freely. He learned the vessel's name (Sophia) and discovered that she was a twelve-year-old girl, with parents and an older brother whom she loved dearly. All else was hidden inside the steel trap of her memory—the where, when, how, and who remained lost to him. He concentrated and tried to pry deeper, but the scraps of this Sophia's defiance held. In time he stopped trying. There were other ways.

He sensed panic coursing through every fiber of the girl's being, pulling his thoughts in along with it. Important events were happening on the outside, which meant there was only one thing to do.

Sam looked up.

An intense, burning pain stabbed into his skull. He couldn't see out of his right eye. From the left one, an image came into being like a slow-developing Polaroid. A young man with wavy black hair and deep brown eyes hovered above him. The soul residue this young man existed within lightened with a sense of familiarity. _This must be the brother_ , thought Sam. The boy's hands were busy, twisting and pushing somewhere close but beyond Sam's line of sight. With each thrust, the pain in his head grew more intense, more unbearable. Sam had an epiphany. He knew what this girl's sibling was attempting to do. It explained the horrible sensation of being whittled away.

At that moment he saw it. An aura cascaded around the boy, something old, something he had known since the beginning of time.

It was familiar because it was his own.

The aura undulated through the air like invisible flames. In spite of the pain spiking in his head, Sam smiled. _I found you_ , he cried.

His excitement faded when the anguish in his skull spiked. A soft and sweet voice echoed beneath his thoughts. _Thank you, I love you, I forgive you_ , it said. Sam gulped and retreated as quickly as he could, pushing his way back through the tangled mental web.

Even the netherworld, as surreal as it was, had laws. He knew that if he were to be trapped in the girl's mind when all went black, he would be stuck there forever, in nothingness, just like her.

•     •     •

Sam opened his eyes, and the haze of his world beneath the world dissolved. It took a moment for him to regain his physical balance after the sudden shift into a different state of being. He breathed in through his nose even though he didn't have to, for he could survive without any earthly requirements save the need to nourish his body, but he found an odd sort of comfort in the mundane act of inhaling and exhaling. It was a comfort he hoped he would soon have no desire to experience again.

He glanced at the mangled corpse spread before his crossed legs. Blood formed rivers of red that ran across the hardwood floor and emptied outside the front door. He nodded. Everything came back to him.

_I'm in Virginia, on a farm. This old woman's name was Olga. She tasted sour._

He looked at his hands. They appeared somewhat normal now that they were covered with unscarred flesh. Even his fingernails, always the last to heal, had reacquired a smooth texture. It felt good to be almost whole again, even if he couldn't remember the last time he had been so.

Sam dropped the half-devoured heart he'd been holding and stood up. He walked to the doorway and stepped through, admiring the beasts that were gathered outside, his children, the rising moon reflecting in their eyes. They stared at him, and a thousand individual faces blended into one. They were good soldiers, each one of them. They would fight his enemy until they could fight no more. They would help him regain the world, help him shape it in the way he desired. All he needed to do was find the boy. Then all this madness could stop, and he would be at peace.

He wasn't worried that he didn't know where to look. He knew he would find him.

In time.

## CHAPTER 18

### SOLACE

His bleary thoughts were still influenced by the trappings of sleep when Josh woke up. He rubbed his eyes; felt thankful that the nightmare had finally ended. It didn't matter that his hips were numb—the inevitable result of sleeping on a cold, hard floor. He'd been granted the time to doze, to cleanse his mind and body, and that was all that mattered.

He yawned, stretched his arms above his head, and listened for the snap of sore joints that usually followed. When none came, he shrugged and rolled onto his back. He cursed his lack of foresight, allowing sleep to take him while watching television in the living room yet again. Now his morning classes would be difficult. Advanced biology was tough enough without a sore spine and stinging, dry eyes. He wondered why his mother hadn't woken him up. She almost always did when he passed out like this. Perhaps she was sick. If that were the case, there would be no one to get his sister up and dressed.

_Sophia_ , he thought. _I should get up and check on her._

A bright yellow light blinded him. He squinted against the harsh glare and waited for his eyes to adjust. When they did, his face scrunched in bewilderment. Before him was a sink, beside which stood a cabinet filled with long green robes. On his left was a tall, slender box that looked like a safe. To his right, sitting on a shelf, was a statue of the Virgin Mary.

Everything came back to him. This wasn't his parents' house, he wasn't fifteen years old, and Sophia wasn't upstairs in bed, waiting to be sent off to nursery school. They were all dead now. Much to his surprise, this realization didn't cripple him. His agony remained subdued, for in that moment the memories were cold, hard facts and nothing more.

He looked around. This was the Stone Church; of that much he was certain. The walls were creased with familiar watermarks and decayed mortar. He never remembered it looking like this, however. Where he found himself now was still a genuine place of worship.

_"Oh come, all ye faithful_ ," a woman's voice sang.

Josh stood up. The singing called him from a point beyond his sight, reaching out and massaging him with delicate, vibrating fingers. He fixed his mind on it and let the song guide him. The yellow light, which seemed to radiate from nothing and everything at the same time, led him through the door and into the cathedral.

_"Joyful and triumphant."_

A spectacular vision greeted him there. The stained-glass windows shimmered with iridescent light and the solemn faces of the saints gazed down on him in reverence. Positioned in two symmetrical rows in front of the altar, the pews were lined with purple trim. The marble chair where the priest would sit looked forlorn beneath a giant crucifix, a throne awaiting the mislaid prophet who'd been lost in a wilderness of disregarded faith.

_"Oh come ye, oh come ye."_

Josh meandered down the center aisle, running his hand along the edges of the polished wooden benches. They were smooth and spongy to the touch, as if they'd been molded from cured leather. He breathed in deep and smelled burning sulfur and wax. The smell reminded him of Christmas mass. It made him smile. He let the song guide him toward the entrance to the choir loft.

_"To Bethlehem."_

The door closed behind him and he started up the stairs. The singing melted away and was replaced by a more abstract tone. These were the sounds of woodwinds blowing gentle notes while trumpets cried out with joy and violins wailed in wrenching sorrow. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

He entered the loft, where a thousand candles greeted him, lining the banister, propped up on shelves surrounding a painting of the Savior. Some dripped steaming wax onto the pipe organ's leather bench. The organ itself boasted monstrous dimensions. Massive copper cylinders rose from the rear of its body of stained oak. They reached for the heavens with giant bronze fingers as if in homage to the Tower of Babel's folly.

Drawn to the instrument, he pressed down a key. The ivory felt cold and no sound escaped those giant cylinders. Instead, the odd music intensified.

_Look over here._

On the side of the organ appeared a bed. It was the largest one he'd ever seen, at least twice the size of a king. Candles had been placed around the bed, the white satin sheets atop the mattress glimmering in their luminescence. His eyes were drawn to the center.

Sprawled there, naked as the day she was born, was Kyra.

She stared at him, her expression imparting the same mixture of awe and trancelike diffidence that he felt. The sheets sculpted to the curvature of her body, wrapping her in a cocoon of satin. He suddenly felt very warm.

"What's happening?" he asked.

"I don't know," replied Kyra.

"This wasn't here before, was it?"

"I don't think so."

_Go to her._

Josh looked around for the originator of the voice. It seemed to come from everywhere.

"Who _is_ that woman?" Kyra asked.

"You heard her?"

"Yeah. She's been in my head since—" she swept her arm in a grand gesture that exposed her spry little breasts and caused Josh's heart to skip a beat, "—all this happened."

_She's waiting._

Josh lifted his gaze. Behind the bed, in a deep black chasm that shouldn't have been there, stood the lady of shadows. Her hair still danced, just as it had when he followed her down the beach in his dream, just as it had before she made him kill his sister. A hint of resentment caused the bile in his stomach to churn. He wanted to hold on to that anger, but couldn't.

Kyra had turned her head, as well. "Do you see her?" asked Josh, and Kyra nodded. He aimed his next question at the phantom.

"What do you want from me?"

_In time._

"Am I dreaming?"

_No._

"Then what is this?"

The lady replied in words he couldn't quite hear, and then her image liquefied and the wall reappeared. He faced Kyra and they stared at each other. Despite the heat that rapidly filled up the space, a tingling sensation crept downward into his gut, making him shiver.

"So..." said Josh. He felt inebriated and unsure of his next step.

Kyra swung her legs around, spread them wide, and sat up on the bed, exposing the whole of her vulnerability. She appeared younger than he remembered—younger than himself, even. Not a streak of gray tainted her red hair. Her flesh was smooth and without a crease. Those electric green eyes of hers were alive with excitement, rather than somber from the weight of many lost years. He glanced down at his own body and frowned. His slightly bloated gut was disgusting by contrast.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Kyra tilted her head and ran her fingers down her neck, then traced a line around her left breast. Her nipple stood at attention. "There's nothing to be sorry for," she said in a demure tone. "Come here."

He shuffled over and sat down on the edge of the bed. It seemed to take forever for his rear end to land, as if someone had forgotten to wind Father Time's watch. He stared straight ahead, his body feeling like one huge goose bump.

Kyra slunk behind him. He raised his arms above his head and allowed her to lift off his parka. In his jacket pocket, a million miles away, two useless bottles of medicine swished. He shrugged off the sound, somehow willing to accept that they were useless to him now.

She tossed his coat on the floor and kissed his neck, wrapping her legs around his torso. He let his hand wander to her thigh. Her skin burned to the touch. Any doubt and embarrassment he might have felt drifted away. All he could think of was her.

He kissed her lips, soft and wet, then pulled back slightly when it seemed as if his racing heart would explode and looked at her. Her cheeks were ruddy and she panted like a marathon runner, just like him.

"What—" he began.

She put her finger to his lips. Bracing her arms around his neck, she used his body as a pole, swung into his lap with the grace of a gymnast, and pressed her bare buttocks into his lap. She wiggled back and forth and his passion rose. He thought he might lose it right there.

She stopped and removed his sweater and his t-shirt. Then she gently pushed him flat on his back, unbuttoned his jeans, and slid them off his legs. She lowered herself upon him, and allowed him _inside_.

The room dissolved and they made love in a vacuum. They floated through space, cognizant of nothing beyond the primordial zeal of their intertwined bodies. Planets formed inside the dust of eternity and stars breathed their final, destructive breaths, which gave birth to new galaxies and new horizons, all while they moved in tune with each other. Glowing spirals of debris, illuminated by the light that pulsed from a great star on the black horizon, brought forth pinwheels of fire. These events grew, expanded, and twisted about them like a mobile with invisible strings, creating a nursery out of the emptiness of space.

Josh felt a tightening as energy built up in the pit of his stomach. He stared at Kyra, her head thrown back, her eyes closed. Her gleaming skin reflected the molten flares licking off the nearby sun, representing all the purity of creation. This image was the final straw. Josh tossed his own chin at the stars and moaned. Kyra, writhing on top of him, moaned as well. The sun became a red giant then burst into a supernova, and she willingly accepted all he had to offer.

When it was done, Kyra collapsed, panting. He felt the slickness of her perspiration and rubbed his torso against hers. He loved the way her breasts shifted with the contour of his movements. She slid off of him and rested by his side. He lifted himself up on his elbow and gazed down at her. Her eyes, wide open and staring at him with a mystical calm, had never looked so contented. Sophia and his parents entered his thoughts. The wave of despair he expected never came. All he felt was joy.

"What's going on here?" a stunned female voice asked.

The veneer fell. Josh pulled the sheets (cotton now, there was no satin to be seen) over their bare bodies and looked around. The huge bed had disappeared. They were still in the loft, only now they were atop a spread sleeping bag. Diffused early-morning sunlight drifted through chinks in the blacked-out windows, creating a dimness that replaced the brilliant glare of the supernova. Josh glanced at Kyra, who appeared as baffled as he did. The woman's voice spoke again. It sounded mortified.

"Oh, God! I'm sorry!"

Mary Kincaid, a woman in her late thirties with wide hips and short, peppered hair stood in the doorway. Her hand was over her mouth and her eyes bulged out of her head. "I'm so sorry," she repeated, turning her back to them. "I heard someone scream and got worried. I didn't know you two were...‌um...‌doing things."

"It's okay, Mary," said Kyra, her tone confident. "I'm flattered you cared, actually."

"Uh, sure. I guess...‌well...‌I think I'll go downstairs now."

Kyra glimpsed at Josh and winked. Her expression was mischievous.

"You do that," she said.

Mary left the loft, hurrying down the stairs as if she couldn't get away fast enough. Josh let out a long sigh, reclining on the warm sleeping bag and tapping his fingers on Kyra's naked back. She faced him. The creases around her eyes and the slight gray of her hair had returned. He didn't care. She was still beautiful.

"Do you think they'll be talking about us?" he asked.

"Who?"

He pointed at the floor and shrugged.

"Oh, them. Of course. The old wives' club always does."

"Them's the breaks, I guess, huh?"

"Exactly."

He couldn't stop thinking of the exquisite other world from which they'd just returned. It was still fresh in his memory, despite Mary's interruption. He hoped Kyra had experienced it, as well.

"What just happened?" he asked.

She smiled. "I don't know. But it was _wonderful_."

"It was like we were dreaming."

"Sure did seem that way. I don't think I've ever been so...‌turned on."

"You're telling me. But are you embarrassed at all?"

She dropped her head into the crook of his arm and played with the kinky hairs on his belly. "Absolutely not," she said. "Why should I be? There's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'll give you that."

She seemed to pause for a moment. When she lifted her head and looked him in the eye her face was stern. "Josh, I need to ask you something. I don't want you to be mad."

"Okay."

"What happened earlier? With your folks?"

Josh swallowed hard. With the fantasy over, he couldn't shield his consciousness from the emotions any longer. They threatened to arrest his forward momentum, to tie him down with grief if he spoke about it.

"I...‌can't," he said. "I'm sorry."

Kyra nestled her head back in. "That's okay. Take your time. I don't want to upset you again."

The memory of their harsh earlier encounter came back to him and he grimaced. "Oh, shit, I'm sorry, Kye. I didn't mean to take it out on you. It wasn't fair. You were just...‌there. You know what I mean?"

"I get it, Josh. I really do."

They lay together in silence after that. Everything seemed so strange. Just like earlier, it seemed almost creepy that he should feel so close to this woman he hardly knew, that he would be able to shrug aside the filth surrounding him and the horror going on outside the walls and just indulge in sex. His confusion and guilt threatened to overtake him, so instead he listened to the rustle of the leaves drifting through the stone walls, pretending it sounded peaceful. The image of Kyra's naked body as they made love came to mind once more, the way she twisted, the way she slid against him, the moans that escaped her lips, the smells she emitted. He realized how, in his desperate descent into misery, he'd needed every inch of her. And she gave it to him. Willingly. When he thought of it that way, their actions didn't seem so strange any longer.

"I know," she said. "I needed it, too."

"What, do you read minds?"

She laughed. "No, silly. You moaned and started twiddling my pubes."

He was about to reply with a cackle when he thought of the shadow lady again. He kissed Kyra on the neck and then asked, "Do you remember the woman?"

"Of course."

"She said something before she disappeared. I couldn't quite make it out. It sounded like she said...‌I don't know, like 'seek providence' or something."

Kyra giggled. "That's not what she said at all."

"Then what was it?"

" _This is solace._ And she was right."

## CHAPTER 19

### BERWICK

"All hold!" ordered General Stack, and the convoy came to a halt. He took the map from his rucksack and examined it while the rising sun, just visible on the horizon, framed him in a menacing light. James Conroy, who watched from his place in the topless Hummer behind the lead vehicle, couldn't help but recall the long days and nights he had spent in Vietnam. He remembered how every second seemed to take forever and how uncertain his commanding officers seemed when they issued orders. In this instance the first trait was the same, but the second, not so much. Stack, unlike his superiors of long ago, exuded confidence. He acted as if he were untouchable. With that arrogance unfolding before him, James began to doubt his decision.

_What did I get us into?_ he thought.

Stack folded the map and handed it to his lieutenant, then picked up his walkie-talkie and spoke into it. A static voice on the other end answered. The general nodded, dropped the radio onto his seat, and stood up. His arms were folded and he rolled a toothpick between his lips. To James, he resembled a wax sculpture of the doomed General Custer himself.

Stack grabbed a megaphone and faced the procession. "Listen up," he announced, while his finger pointed toward a location off in the distance. "There is a field just over this rise. The Wraiths are gathered at the far end. They'll most likely expect us to split up and flank them. But that's not what we're going to do. We're moving straight in, folks. We'll take them out head-on. They'll never expect it." At that he lowered the megaphone and covered it. His lieutenant said something that James couldn't hear. The General laughed and then raised it to his mouth again.

"All right, people! Move out!"

James glanced to his left, where his wife sat with her hands in her lap. She tilted her head to him, her eyes overflowing with sadness. She grabbed his wrinkled palm, brought it to her lips, and kissed it. His abdomen twisted in knots and it took all his effort to keep from breaking down. He thought of the disagreement they'd had that morning, during which his insides flushed with anger. "You're not coming," he'd said, to which she replied, "I've been with you for almost fifty years, Jimmy...‌if there's a chance things are going to end today, I want them to end with you by my side." She was right about that, of course. The truth was he needed her. He always had.

The convoy plodded along and James looked behind him. The vehicles formed a winding snake that followed the general's lead, twisting around the unpaved roads like unfastened links in a chain. It amazed him how many people had agreed to this plan. There were upwards of a hundred individuals in this thrown-together militia. Most of them were civilians who, like he and Sandra, were neither mentally nor physically equipped to handle what lay ahead of them. There were husband and wife teams like Bob and Tessa Simpson; pimple-faced, high school teenagers like Walter Scott and Debbie Landry; single women with no family to latch onto like Molly St. Clair; even Charlie Moore, the kid who delivered the newspaper to the Conroy doorstep every morning for the past three years, who couldn't have been more than fourteen, had made the trek. Every face he scanned appeared awfully worried.

_As well they should be_ , he thought. James Conroy felt very, very foolish.

The fleet came to a halt at the edge of a field. The General waved and people began to jump from the vehicles. While everyone else walked, Stack pulled ahead in his jeep, flanked by the lone tank in their arsenal. They bounced across the hardened, roiling soil. The soldiers rounded up the civilians, formed them in three ragged lines, and ordered them to follow. James did as he was told like the good soldier he'd always been, walking with one hand wrapped around Sandra's waist. Her eyes stared straight ahead, and James admired his wife's courage in a moment when he himself thought about running away. The chilly air of southern Maine in autumn blew past and made him shiver. The heavy bomber jacket on his back and wool scarf wrapped around his neck did little to fend off the cold.

Step by painful step, they traipsed over the packed-down, frozen mud. James watched the Jeep bounce alongside its big-brother-with-a-cannon, and he noticed how easily the smaller vehicle maneuvered through the uneven landscape. A picture of his Volvo, the pride of his adulthood, entered his mind. He'd owned that car for twenty-seven years, and it had treated him well. The only trips to the shop it ever made were for oil changes and brake jobs. He felt a stab of sorrow, for the car was part of a past life now. He would never see its off-white glory again. There would be no more leisurely drives after mass on Sunday mornings, no more waiting for the heat to kick in on cold winter days, and no more reclining in those bucket seats after work with a book in his lap. No, that automobile was now part of Josh's future. Hopefully the kid was heading full-steam toward a better life, a life that was away from them, a life that was safe...‌if that was even possible anymore.

James truly did love the boy. Never in his adult life—neither in the military nor the old machine shop where he worked after that—had he felt comfortable enough with a co-worker to dub them a _friend_. Then came this Benoit kid, a lad forty years his junior who brimmed with kindness, and filled that void.

In many ways Josh reminded him of his own two boys. They were around the same age, worked just as hard, and carried with them a sense of honor that had become virtually unheard of in the ripening "me" generation. Josh, however, possessed something his sons did not. While Jack and Mark were dedicated to their jobs and families the same as he, they weren't the brightest of men, whereas Josh radiated intelligence. It burst out of him at odd intervals, in the form of arbitrary rants, as if there were goings on in his brain that were so profound yet so subtle that it threatened to suffocate him if he couldn't find the proper release. It killed James to think of the boy wallowing away in that dead-end job. Nobody could convince him that his friend wasn't destined for greatness, and he thanked the heavens that Josh had decided to be elsewhere. If anyone could survive this mess, it was him.

James shook his head, squeezed Sandra's hand, and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. They passed a broken-down barn and marched up the steep hill that lay behind it. Once they reached the top of the rise, the countryside spread out before them like a patchwork quilt. It was a vast meadow of brown and yellow grasses and broken stalks of corn. A blockade of evergreens surrounded it on all sides.

James tilted his head and listened for signs of life. All he could hear were the roar of the two motors and the steady thump of marching feet.

The General's Jeep came to a halt. The tank did the same. Stack stood up on the passenger seat and lifted his binoculars. There seemed to be a look of confusion on his face. James squinted and tried to see if he could find out what caused it.

"What's going on?" whispered Sandra.

James waved her away. "Not now, dear."

A low hum came to his ears. He saw the General talk to his lieutenant and decided he would have his say. He urged Sandra to stay put and approached the Jeep.

At the rear of the Jeep he stopped and placed one hand on its cold metal frame. The hum grew louder, like the distant whine of an old steam-powered locomotive, swelling with each passing second. It was a familiar sound, and then he realized its cause. He wasn't hearing a singular sound, but a series of continuous clicks—hundreds of weapons being loaded simultaneously. His eyes bulged and his heart raced. He glanced up at the General, who still stood with the binoculars pressed to his brow and that mystified look on his ugly mug. The only words James could think of were, " _This guy's a fucking idiot!"_

He backed away from the Jeep, slowly at first, and then he broke into a full gallop. "Go!" he screamed as he made a beeline for Sandra. "Everyone get out! Now! It's a trap!"

"Get back here!" he heard Stack shout. "Everyone stay their ground!"

A pair of soldiers attacked James from both sides, grabbing him under the arms and spinning him around. He struggled, but their youth and strength were too much for him. He relented, allowed their fingers to press into his biceps until it hurt, and put on his best air of defiance.

"I'll have you brought up on charges!" Stack roared, his face beet-red. "Do you hear me, man? I should shoot you where you stand."

"You...‌don't...‌get it," replied James between gasps. "That sound...‌it's...‌it's..."

He never got the chance to finish that statement.

A high-pitched screech sounded, followed by a flash of brilliant yellow as the Jeep upon which the General stood exploded. Stack himself went shooting straight into the sky, his flailing body engulfed in flames.

James's head snapped back. He had been standing too close to the explosion and its force sent him flying. He careened through space for what felt like an eternity and landed square on his back. His vision became hazy. He tried to breathe, but all he could do was wheeze.

A myriad of gunfire followed. James tried to kick his body backward, but he couldn't feel his legs. With a great, straining effort, he managed to turn his head. A few feet away, he spotted Sandra. She was on her side with her back to him. A large, jagged shard of metal protruded from her ear.

He wanted to scream, _no, this isn't fair, don't take her away from me!_ but his body wouldn't cooperate with his brain's torment. Instead he moaned and forced his neck to turn his head in the other direction. There he saw Frankie Jenkins, a nice boy who worked at the supermarket. He was crouching behind the body of a fallen man. Bullets peppered the corpse's hide, the dirt before him alive with red mist.

Frankie caught a slug in the side, followed by one in the neck. He fell to the ground and writhed. Blood churned from his wounds like water from a hose. James closed his eyes. He wanted to scream but knew nothing would come out.

Other sounds joined the uproar, the rhythmic clunking of a howling stampede. It echoed all around him. Panic set in. All he wanted to do was get up but he could only move his hand.

He ran his palm down his side. A tangle of moist tissue greeted his fingers just below his pelvis where his legs should have been. He began to shake and his brain thumped from a lack of oxygen. Then, when it seemed he would implode, calmness swept over him.

He stared into the blackness and prayed. He prayed in silent reverie that the world might be cleansed of this madness. He prayed that he might meet Sandra on the other side of oblivion. He prayed for the women and children they'd left behind.

It was mankind in general he prayed for most of all. His mind repeated a constant idiom, over and over again, until his consciousness renounced him:

_Please forgive us, God. I'm sorry we've disappointed you._

## CHAPTER 20

### THE LONG RUN

Stacy sat cross-legged on the floor and rocked Little Roger. The child fussed and flailed his legs while she tried to force the nipple of a bottle between his lips. The juice inside was cold and Little Roger wanted no part of it.

It appeared Stacy was ready to toss the infant across the room. "What's wrong with you?" she cried.

Kyra put her hand on her friend's shoulder. "You want me to help?" she asked.

"No," bawled Stacy. "I want him to _stop fucking crying!_ "

"Well..." Kyra began before shutting her mouth. _I don't know the first thing about kids_ , she thought. _What kind of help would I really be?_

"Can I lend a hand?" another voice asked. Kyra turned and saw Jessica Lure, a thin woman in her early twenties, standing behind her. She held her own son, Zachary, in her arms. A concerned smile appeared on Jessica's face while her boy played with the frayed ends of her long brown hair.

Kyra stood up, noticing that most every pair of eyes in the room, both adults and children alike, were fixed on them. She shivered, feeling claustrophobic as the spacious interior of the church seemed to shrink.

"Go ahead," she told Jessica. "He's been going on like this for hours."

"I know," Jessica replied. "I could hear him."

Stacy lifted her eyes to the young woman who stood before her and started crying even harder.

Jessica placed Zachary on the ground. "Stay here, honey, okay?" she said. Zachary nodded, giggled, and plopped down on his pampered rear. He turned his attention to the one-legged G.I. Joe action figure he held in his chubby fingers. Jessica's head tilted as she watched him, as if hypnotized by the simplicity of his joy. With a shrug of her shoulders she turned around and held out her hands.

"Can I have him?" she asked.

Stacy handed over the wailing baby without any further prodding. Jessica pressed Little Roger's body into her chest and walked around in circles. "Hush little baby, don't you cry," she sang. He stopped shrieking almost immediately.

Kyra felt jealousy creep in. _I could've done that_ , she thought.

With Jessica caring for Little Roger and Zachary fully entrenched in slobbering over the head of his action figure, Kyra drew close to her friend and offered some comfort. Stacy's nose was still running and her cheeks were flushed, but she'd stopped crying, at least.

"You want to take a walk?" asked Kyra.

Stacy frowned. "Can we go someplace other than here?"

"Of course." Kyra glanced at Jessica. The young mother, who now bounced while the baby clucked joyously in her arms, gave her a thumbs-up. Kyra helped Stacy to her feet and together they walked to the back door.

A blast of frigid air welcomed them to the rear walkway. The two friends strolled side-by-side, tracing the building's rocky foundation. For quite a while, neither uttered so much as a word.

"I miss him already," Stacy said at last.

"I know, honey."

"Do you think they'll be back soon?"

_Don't hold your breath_ , Kyra was about to say, but decided on, "Yeah, pretty soon," instead.

"I know it's only been two days, but..."

Kyra draped her arm around Stacy's shoulders and pulled her close. "I am, too."

Tears welled up in Stacy's eyes once more. "I want him back. I heard gunshots this morning. They were far away. At least I _think_ they were far away. I'm...‌I'm scared they..."

"I know, honey. I know."

She wrapped her friend in a loving embrace. Stacy shook as if she'd spent the last few hours locked inside a freezer. Her friend's reaction scared Kyra more than she cared to admit. She had a feeling the militia would never be coming home and didn't want to think about how Stacy would react if that feeling were to be proven true.

"Give them another day or so," she conceded. "They'll be home eventually, and then everything will be back to normal. You'll see."

Stacy cracked a smile. To Kyra, no lie had ever felt so satisfying.

•     •     •

"Do you have any...‌fives?" asked Andy Carlson.

Josh grinned. "Go fish."

"You're gonna lose," laughed Francis Simone.

"Shut up," said Andy, "or I'll punch you."

"Alright guys, simmer down," said Josh. He chuckled and put his hands up in surrender. "We're gonna have fun, okay? Let's not get physical. Trust me, it never turns out good."

"Okay, Mister Benoit," the two boys responded in unison.

Josh watched as the kids eyed their cards with squinty-eyed intensity. A boisterous pair of nine-year-olds, Andy and Francis had been classmates at Dover Elementary School. "We're best friends for life," Andy had told him earlier, before putting Francis into a headlock and wrestling him to the ground. Josh bonded with the both of them right away. They reminded him of the way he and Colin had been at that age—needy for a youthful connection, yet constantly at each others' throats. A simple glance was enough to elicit either a fit of laughter or flying punches. A cramped ache of sadness twisted in his throat.

Francis picked up a card from those scattered on the floor and considered it with a comically dismayed expression before stuffing it into his hand. The boy glanced up at Josh and grinned.

"Got nothing?" asked Josh.

"Nope."

Andy mocked his friend with a song. "You're gonna lose, you're gonna lose!"

It was Francis's turn to act defensive. "You're a jerk," he said, "and your momma's ugly."

The door opened and Kyra poked her head in. "What's going on in here?" she asked.

"Go fish," replied Andy.

Josh nodded. "Yup. I'm getting spanked by the two masters here. They're kicking my ass."

"Nuh-uh," said Francis, his mouth screwing into a confused grimace. "You're winning."

Josh rustled the boy's curly brown hair. "I know, bud. Just having fun."

"You got room for one more?"

"Sure thing."

Josh shuffled over and Kyra sat down beside him. He peeked at her breasts, though in a way he thought wouldn't be too obvious. It had been two days since they'd first made love, and ever since that night he couldn't get enough of her company. That sense of strangeness, of inevitability, returned. Even with the end of the world going on outside, all he could think about was the way she smiled, the rise of her chest when she laughed, and the way she would drape her gorgeous red hair over one eye when she wanted to appear serious. There was a comforting wantonness in her companionship, and she allowed him to use her body to stave off the bouts of sorrow that threatened to swallow him. He needed her, and he sensed that the feeling was mutual.

Her eyes flashed in his direction and she stuck out her tongue to let him know that she knew he was watching her. He smiled.

"So, what's going on?" she asked in a low voice.

"Nothing."

"Come on. You don't have to be specific, but at least give me the courtesy of an acknowledgment."

He bowed his head. "Fine. Something's wrong."

"What is it?"

His brow furrowed. "You said..." he began, and then he noticed her playful grin and laughed.

"Gotcha."

Andy placed his card on the ground. "I gotta pee, Mr. Benoit. That okay?"

"Of course, kiddo," he replied. Using the nickname James Conroy often employed to address him made his inner gloom swell.

"Hold up, Andy," said Francis. He followed his friend out the door. "I gotta go, too!"

With the kids now departed, Josh sighed and rubbed his temples.

"Josh," said Kyra, "there's something we have to talk about."

He groaned. "What is it?"

"I just got back from taking a walk with Stacy. Things aren't going so well here. Everyone's on edge. No one knows what to do next."

"And?"

"What _are_ we going to do?"

"You've got me."

"Well, someone better come up with something, and quick. I caught Lauren Richards looking through my purse this morning. It turns out she was looking for the keys to the Volvo. Why she though _I_ had them, I have no idea, but she wanted to drive up to Maine and look for her husband."

"Did you tell her it was a bad idea?"

She snorted. "Of _course_ I did. But everyone's scared. _I'm_ scared. It's not doing anyone any good just sitting around stewing in this shit."

"Well," said Josh, "why don't we just tell everyone to sit tight? The Army guys might get back in a day or two. They'll know what to do."

"You really think they're coming back?"

He shook his head. "Not really. I just want my life back. I want Mr. C back. I want my family back." Pressure built up behind his eyes and his nose began to drip. "Nope, not going there. Not now. I'm just saying that I don't know what to do. I'm no good at this shit. I wish Colin were here. He's the idea guy. _He'd_ figure something out."

Kyra's face lit up and she slapped the floor with an open palm.

"Ho-ly shit," she muttered.

"What?"

"I'm so sorry, Josh. I totally forgot."

"Forgot what?"

"About Colin. I saw him few days ago. Wow, it seems like longer than that."

"Where was he?"

"Here. Looking for you. He said something about doing 'the long run'. He said you'd know what it meant."

Josh covered his face with his hand. "Oh, Jesus. Of course. The farm."

"You think they're still there?"

"I don't know." His face flushed with blood as his excitement grew. He thought of all those days of his youth that were spent in the woods surrounding Grampa O'Connor's farm. The summers especially were flooding with good times, drinking and smoking pot by the campfire, playing capture-the-flag with their tight-knit clique of high school friends, bringing the occasional girl out to impress her with his knowledge of birds and perhaps getting to squeeze a boob or two. These experiences seemed to take place in another time, another life. He wished he could travel back there whenever he wanted to.

"We've talked about The Long Run for years," he said, his voice distant and reflective. "It's been an idea of ours since we were kids—our emergency plan. Bobby named it. When shit hit the fan, we'd make a mad dash for his grandfather's farm and camp in the hills behind the tobacco fields." He shook his head. "It's been _years_ since I thought of this, Kye. I'd almost forgotten, but not Colin. See, I _told_ you he's always thinking one step ahead."

"So what's the plan?" Kyra asked.

Josh grinned. He knew the others wouldn't agree with them leaving, but it wouldn't hurt anyone if they snuck out the back door. _They_ were the ones with the only working car, after all.

"Let's chance it," he said.

•     •     •

The O'Connor farm resided in the neighboring town of Somersworth, only a couple miles from the church. Josh steered the Volvo down the pothole-littered dirt road, Kyra by his side. He took time to watch out for unwanted visitors and admire the landscape. It amazed him how nature interjected its inherent beauty into the countryside even after devastation had laid ruin to everything else.

The afternoon sun cast brilliant reflections off the fields' rich, dark soil. Huge trees, some of the oldest and largest in all New England, formed a protective awning over the road. The fallen autumn leaves, colored with their muted reds and somber yellows, produced a canvas of natural pigments that stretched out before them.

They slowed to a crawl when the final turn approached. The mailbox appeared—a hand-built rectangular box with a pair of cardinals painted on its side. Josh pulled into the driveway and the manor emerged from behind a blockade of mammoth elm trees. It was a Victorian farmhouse, wood paneling cracked and peeling due to decades of harsh and inconsistent weather.

_Home again, home again_ , he thought.

He pulled alongside the house, parked a few feet away from the front porch, and stepped out of the vehicle. Kyra did likewise, bundling up in her jacket when a crisp gust of wind rattled the trees. Josh stared at the house and then walked away, heading for the meadow that lay behind the fenced-in back yard and gesturing for Kyra to follow.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

Josh pointed as he walked. "There should be a path at the edge of the trees over there. I haven't been here in years, though. It might've grown over with weeds since then, so it could take some searching."

"Why don't we check the house first?"

"Because," he said with a smirk, "I know my friend."

They walked the tree line bordering the meadow. While they searched, they pushed aside the undergrowth that spilled over into the grassy knoll. The vegetation was unusually thick given the time of year. Even with intense sunlight bearing down on them the forest, with its impenetrable canopy, was dark.

A few minutes later Josh found what he hoped was the right place: an area of flattened vines, trampled saplings, and snapped branches. He wedged his body between a pair of evergreens and looked around. He'd been right. A muddy trail, impressed with fresh footprints, led deep into the woods.

"I found it," he said.

Kyra hurried over to him and Josh took her hand. She squeezed his fingers, her grasp sending a chill of excitement through him. He grinned and proceeded to steer her down the path.

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" she asked.

"Pretty much."

They hiked for what seemed like an hour, maybe more. Halfway through the journey they passed an old ditch created by a tree that had fallen during an odd New England hurricane—a gully Josh, Colin, and Bobby had used as a fort during their childhood war games. The deep cavern was still roofed by the hollow trunk of the long-dead maple tree. Josh ventured inside, but it was empty. He climbed back out, cupped his hands around his mouth, and called out Bobby and Colin's names. His voice echoed through the emptiness while Kyra shifted from foot to foot by his side. There was no reply.

Before long, they made their way down a steep embankment. Josh tripped on a root and lost his balance and Kyra saved him from the embarrassment of a headfirst tumble by jacking her arm beneath his elbow. He slid a few feet, dragging her along in the process, but managed to stay upright.

"Thanks," he said, and smiled. Her strength amazed him, given her diminutive build.

More time passed, the sun progressing across the late autumn sky, and still they found nothing. Josh found a dry stump, brushed off the pine needles, and sat down.

"We're getting nowhere," he muttered.

Kyra placed a reassuring hand on his back. "Come on, Josh. It's getting late. We should head back. Maybe they decided to stay at the house, after all."

He shook his head. "No. They wouldn't do that. They'd want to get as far away from town as possible." He glanced down the path, which had grown thin. Trees squeezed in on either side. It looked more like the _notion_ of a trail.

"We have to go deeper."

It was five hundred feet farther in, when the invading branches slowed their progress to a virtual crawl, that he saw it—a brush of vivid blue among the sea of pastel browns and yellows. "We're here!" shouted Josh, giving Kyra a delighted grin.

Hand in hand they ran to the campsite, which consisted of Colin's old pup tent, erected in the center of a swept clearing. Damp cigarette butts, aluminum cans, and empty beer bottles were strewn around the fire pit. Josh zipped open the tent flap and peeked inside. A sleeping bag, surrounded by empty candy wrappers and about fifteen used-up packs of smokes, were all that he saw. He withdrew from the tent, meandered to the fire pit, and placed his hand above it.

"It's still warm," he said.

Josh stood up. _Come on, guys_ , he thought, _you've got to be here somewhere._ He strained to see through the cascade of shadows the sparse daylight provided. A quake of self-doubt filtered into his optimism. _You're too late_ , it said. _Just like with Sophia. Just like with your parents. Just like with Marcy. You haven't been able to save_ anyone _you love, so why would this be any different?_

His thoughts skipped a beat with the inclusion of Marcy's name. He hadn't thought of her since the night of the cat incident. For a moment he forgot what he was doing.

"Hold on," said Kyra, and he snapped back to attention. She stared off in the distance, her eyes squinting. Her nose scrunched up as if she smelled something foul and Josh followed her gaze.

"Do you hear that?" she asked.

"I don't hear anything," he whispered. "Why, did you?"

"Yeah."

"What was it?"

"A yelp. Or something like that."

He concentrated harder, but he could make out nothing but the wind as it hissed through the trees. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I don't hear a—"

That's when it happened. A muted yowl, like the distant scream of a cat in heat, came from his left. He stepped back and glanced in the direction of another path he had previously missed, this one cut like a jagged vein through the foliage. Then the cat-scream came again, louder this time. Josh's heart beat like a hummingbird's. He ground his teeth together and squeezed Kyra's hand.

"That way," she said.

"That way," he agreed.

They ran down the new trail, the branches and vines threatening to slow their progress snapped and broken by their forward momentum. The route led up a steep, moss-covered incline. Josh huffed and puffed as he scaled the hill on all fours, clawing in desperation for the crown. Kyra reached the top first, ascending the rise with ease, her hands and feet digging into the soil and lifting her body up as if it were second nature. The yelp, which was sounding every few seconds now, came again. Josh ignored it and took a moment to catch his breath before continuing his climb. Kyra stared down at him from her position at the top of the rise. She had been peering in the other direction only a moment before, a look of dread on her face, her teeth clenched and eyes darting. That look told him they didn't have much time.

Josh pulled his shoulders up and over the ridge. There was a small, flat surface only ten or so feet wide up there that quickly sloped down the other side. Beyond the decline was a vast open space, and he immediately recognized where they were. It was the Stepnoski Brothers' turf field, left uncultivated in spite of the coming winter season, an ocean of lime-colored grass that expanded before his eyes.

Below them, fifty feet from the tree line, he spotted a great many people engaged in a flurry of activity. He remained flat on his stomach and stared at them. The people danced in a circle, in perfect rhythm with one another. Their flesh was brown and rutted, and Josh found their movements both compelling and frightening due to the single-minded aggression they displayed. He was reminded again of his drive down Main Street on the day he raced against time to save a doomed Sophia from the schoolhouse. These beasts dancing down below were just as primitive and horrific as the ones he's seen that day, but their stretched flesh and elongated teeth made them a hundred times more terrifying.

The understanding came to him that _these_ were the creatures the General had talked about. ' _The_ _plague of humanity'_ , he'd called them. Along with that knowledge, another, even darker revelation came forward: If this was what awaited the Dover/Newmarket Militia, there was no chance in hell anyone would ever see those folks again.

Kyra tapped him on the arm. She looked so frightened while she mouthed ' _look'_ and pointed at the scene. He rose up on his hands to get a better angle and a face he recognized emerged from the center of the circle. It was Colin. The beasts were playing a sadistic game of bull-in-the-ring with him. Colin held a shovel and spun around while he shrieked at them to back away. He thrust the shovel at any that stepped forward. His blond hair, a bit too long and matted with grime, whipped around.

Josh jumped to his feet without thinking and slid down the other side of the mud-packed hill. His panicked mind threw caution to the wind. His only thoughts were _gotta get there quick, gotta get there now._

When his feet reached level ground he raced for the circle of monsters as fast as he could. He ignored Kyra's whisper-like shouts, which reached his ears like music from a muffled stereo.

He skidded to a stop a few yards from the swarm, his feet slipping on the wet grass. Pressure built up in his chest, flowing from his arms to his fingertips and from his neck to throat to cranium. The reservoir of anger couldn't be held at bay. His muscles tensed, he threw his shoulders back, and the tendons in his neck stretched as he screamed with every ounce of power built up within him.

" _FUCK! STOP!_ "

The creatures ceased their frantic tango and turned in his direction. Josh backed up a step, realizing how silly he'd been to approach a murderous horde without a plan, or, for that matter, an army. However, those who stared at him did not charge, instead standing still as if trapped in stone. Their faces drooped, with lips that hung to the flank and tongues that dangled like dead snakes.

Josh shuffled to the side to see if they would follow him. Their eyes did, but nothing else about them moved. He thought of Sophia, during those last moments while he cleaned his parents' blood from her face in the kitchen. She had reacted in much the same way at first. He breathed out a dejected sigh at the thought of her, but forced himself to stop stalling. He knew he had to take advantage of the beasts' bizarre stillness before they snapped out of it.

"Colin," he said. His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

Colin poked his head around one of his frozen attackers, staring at Josh in wide-eyed disbelief. Josh gestured for his friend to come forward and Colin obeyed, placing the shovel on the ground and turning his body sideways to slip between a pair of the hideous creatures without touching them.

Josh held his breath as Colin squeezed through the mass of twisted flesh. The scared young man then inched forward, step by agonizing step, on shaking legs. Tears ran down his cheeks in torrents.

"Oh my God, oh my God," he kept repeating.

"Come on," said Josh, snatching his friend's hand. They slowly turned and tiptoed for the muddy hillock, where Kyra awaited at the peak, her lips drawn back and appearing tense. Josh felt that way as well, and he moved all the faster.

Howls filled the air, and Josh didn't bother turning around to see what the commotion was all about. He squeezed Colin's hand and started to run, yanking his friend behind him, darting for the rise.

"Hurry up!" Kyra screeched. They reached the muddy slope and began to scale it. Hand over hand, he dug his fingers into the slop. Halfway up, Josh feared that Colin would slip and fall into the ravenous hands that were sure to await them at the bottom. This fear only lasted a second, for Colin righted his posture and pushed his lean physique onward with a grace Josh couldn't match. Before long his friend had passed him, heaving over the bank with his arms and legs flailing.

Josh took a deep breath and lunged forward, reaching for Kyra's outstretched hand. She caught it and braced her feet shoulder width apart. With her assistance, he slipped over the embankment and tumbled onto the grass. He rolled to a stop, closed his eyes, and lay still for a moment, panting. His body hurt. He felt dizzy.

The sound of laughter brought him back around. He sat up to see Colin, who stood next to Kyra a few feet away, bend over at the waist and guffaw while tears still streamed down his cheeks. Kyra had her hand on his back. She glanced in Josh's direction and shrugged.

Josh rose to his feet and staggered over to them. "What's going on?" he asked.

"I...‌that was...‌holy shit...‌fucking hell, man," Colin gasped between fits of laughter.

Josh peeked over the knoll. The creatures— _Wraiths_ , as the surely departed General Stack had called them—were gathered at the bottom of the hill. They appeared to have difficulty scaling the mucky slope, falling over each other like a pack of newly born calves. This sight offered him no relief, however. Something inside him said it wouldn't be long before they figured it out.

He nudged Kyra's arm and nodded in the direction of the path they'd taken to get there. "Go," he said. She didn't need any more urging than that. He then seized Colin by both of his ears and forced him out of his crouch.

"Get up," he ordered. "We've gotta get out of here. Like, right now."

Colin complied, jogging beside his friend. "Where...‌are we gonna go?" he blurted out.

Before Josh could answer Kyra appeared from around the corner. "Not that way!" she yelled. "Someone's coming up the trail!"

Josh stopped in his tracks.

"Fuck," muttered Colin.

Josh pulled his own hair. "Shit! Come on, _think_ , dammit!'

Colin slapped him on the back. "Hey, I got an idea," he said. He stepped over a thorn bush at the edge of the path and looked as if he was trying to peer through the densely-packed trees. When he turned back to face Josh his eyes were wide, a huge smirk plastered on his lips. His expression was filled with mischievous vigor.

He pointed through the jungle of foliage. "Old Man McKinley's place is right over there," said Colin. "I bet you he's got a friggin' arsenal in the basement. It shouldn't take too long to get there if we run for it." He winked at Josh. "Of course, that means you're gonna have to light a fire under that fat ass of yours, bro."

Josh looked at Kyra, smiled, and then brought his gaze back to his friend. "This is it," he said. "The Long Run."

"The first and hopefully the last," replied Colin, and without another word, the three of them took off.

## CHAPTER 21

### THE COMING STORM

On the television set, a man screamed, "Say 'ello, to my lil' friend!" This was followed by an explosion as the double doors in front of him blew outward. People dashed through the building, dressed in strange clothes that appeared too small for their bodies. They fired weapons at the lone hero, who ran onto the balcony and yelled at the top of his lungs. This man killed any and all who crossed his path until a salvo of bullets brought him to a slow and drawn-out demise.

Sam grinned and pressed the rewind button on the remote control, watching the scene again. The great inventions of the age he'd awoken into were amazing. There were movies, gunpowder, and rocket-propelled grenade launchers. The world had changed so much since the days of the sword and spear. A dizzying impatience came over him. He had to enjoy all of these new wonders before the lights went out and they were lost to him.

_Stop finding joy in this. Joy is not in our nature. You know this._

"I know," he muttered, and then clicked off the glowing box. The screen fizzled and faded to black. The resulting emptiness caused a fit of rage to bubble inside of him. He tossed the remote control at the television as hard as he could. The flat screen cracked and tipped over.

He screamed.

The outburst helped to calm him, but only a little. Still restless, he stood up and paced around the room. _Emotion is not for us_ , his inner voice reasoned. _It would do you well to remember why we are here._

"It's only a matter of time," he replied with a groan.

His stomach rumbled. He needed sustenance. The thought that this would satisfy his inner frustration drove him onward. He put on a pair of sunglasses and walked out into the hot Georgia sun. It rained down on him like an inquisitor's torch and forced him to question his motives.

_Why are you here?_ the sun asked. _Why now? Where are you going?_

He couldn't answer it at first.

_You know why. Do not deny it._

Still nothing.

The tiny voice of his body's previous inhabitant distracted him. It remembered so many things that had helped him—the ability to operate machinery such as cars, which allowed him to traverse nearly a thousand miles in two days and reach his current position; the knowledge of how to use a computer, which gave him the advantage of watching his plan unfold from afar; and finally, the joys of visual entertainment, which he'd just torn himself away from. Yet, in spite of its helpfulness, it also weakened him. He was a prisoner to its human passions and need for distraction, which could at times cause him to forget the reasons he did _anything._

He concentrated and forced these thoughts away. He was himself again, able to answer the sun's unspoken question.

_I need food._

With hurried steps he walked down an empty street until he came upon the center piazza of the college campus he now called home. At the heart of the square, a cage had been erected. There were people inside that cage, a pathetic collection of riffraff, huddled together in fear, soiled and stinking of their own filth. He sensed their terror as he approached and absorbed it. To him it was like a drug.

In a manner that bordered on compassion he wrapped his hand around one of the bars and peered through the gap. The mass of humanity scuttled to the rear of the cage. He scanned them, in search of one who struck his fancy.

_Her._

She was a tall female with a good amount of meat on her bones, and her skin was the color of ash. She had round cheeks and huge, olive-shaped eyes. He removed his sunglasses and thrust his arm through the bars, beckoning her for to approach him.

"Come here, Vanessa," he said.

Those clustered around the girl grasped at the threadbare sundress hanging off her shoulders when she arose, but could do nothing to stop her. When she was beyond their grasp, the clutching hands retreated. The people those hands belonged to cowered and turned away.

Sam sensed her struggle against him. He saw the fear in her eyes as she watched her feet step forward against her will. At the bars she stopped, and her hands rose to take hold of the steel cylinders. Her lips quivered and a spasm of desire flooded Sam's mouth with saliva.

He stroked her hair and noticed how silky the tight curls were, even though they were caked with mud. He knew it would only be a matter of time before the meat on her bones disintegrated and left behind only skeletal remnants of her beauty. This meant that now would be the perfect time for him to take her. A string of spittle dripped down his chin. Her eyes stayed locked on his. He understood that she could not look anywhere else, and neither could he.

"Pretty," he said.

He grabbed a knot of her hair and yanked her forward. The face of poor Vanessa smacked into the bars. Her flesh rippled and a gash opened up on her right cheek. A tooth flew from between her lips and landed at his feet. Sam grinned. Now that she was stunned he would shove her away, open the gate, and devour her. All of this would happen right in front of her people, and none of them would raise a finger to stop him.

As he was about to put his plan into motion, he was struck by a lightning bolt of pain. His vision withered into a black void and his strength drained. He plummeted down a bottomless pit lined with spikes made of human skulls. A scream broke free from his lips.

Then, as quickly as it began, his plunge ceased. He stood in an open field and looked upon the surrounding trees through a multitude of eyes. The perceptions of his sight-givers seemed off somehow, confused—as confused as he.

Two figures, free of his influence, emerged. They inched away from his view and maneuvered for a distant hill. One of them, the short one, he didn't recognize. The other, a tall sort with dark hair and a familiar, antediluvian aura, he did.

_Him!_

Sam roared and his subordinates were coerced into action. They chased the boy up the hill, closing in but never quite reaching him. They came upon a muddy incline that the twisted and ungainly forms of his children couldn't climb without falling all over one another. They were young still, had not yet mastered their new biology. He watched as his quarry slipped out of sight, and panic arose in him

_Slow down_ , he admonished. _Your destiny awaits you whe_ —

A wedge was thrown into his vision and again everything went black. He fell, hitting the ground hard. Wind he didn't need was knocked out of lungs he didn't have to use, while a giant sledgehammer walloped his brain and barbs of light penetrated his eyes. He threw his hands over his face and squealed.

Like the last drops of water trickling through a clogged dike, the feeling subsided. Sam rolled over, got up on his knees, and wiped the dirt from his trousers. He looked up to see the compressed head of poor Vanessa now hanging outside of the bars. Her cheeks had been crushed and her huge brown eyes bulged from their sockets. Her left ear dangled below her chin by a gummy thread. A glistening red patch bereft of hair formed a canyon on the top of her head. He lifted his hand and considered the bundle of curly locks, still attached to the bloody strip of scalp he held between his fingers. He frowned. She was spoiled now.

From the recesses of the cage a multitude of voices screeched in horror. It struck him how none of the others had whetted his fancy quite like Vanessa, and yet his disappointment wasn't all encompassing. Another emotion surged through him, one he hadn't felt in a very long time.

Relief.

He'd awoken in a world much larger than any he'd entered before. He'd ventured north and then south again, and when his destiny hadn't made itself apparent he'd been resigned to seek passage to other continents (something that wasn't easily achieved the last time he had awakened) in order to complete his search.

Luck had found him, however, and now his journey could end. Not only was he on the correct landmass, but he was on the right _coast,_ as well. For a moment he cursed the quantity of people in the world, for he had been in the northeast corner of the country only a month before and in the past would have found the boy without much effort, but he pushed that frustration away. It didn't matter, for with the wonder of modern machinery, he would find out where the boy was and meet him halfway. Then, it would all be over. Then, everything he ever wanted would be his. Then, he could finally rest.

Sam looked skyward and wondered if he should start his trek soon. Clouds had gathered around the sun as they skated across the sky. Prickles tiptoed up and down his spine.

_It is best to stay here_ , he thought. _There is a storm coming._

He leaned against the cage. His stomach rumbled once more and a hint of doubt captured him. He wondered what would happen if his children failed, or if the boy escaped. Though time wasn't of the essence, he had yet to test the limits of his patience. He didn't know how long he could wait.

_It doesn't matter_ , he told the skeptic in his head. _The boy has a destiny, just like the rest of us._

_If all else fails, he will come to me, instead._

## CHAPTER 22

### SLEEPWALKING

Damp wooden planks pressed into Josh's back as he snuck along the edge of the stable. Kyra was beside him, her hot breath boring down on his neck. He looked up at Colin, who stood in the same manner as he a few feet ahead, peering around the corner of the building. After a while, Colin seemed to build up the courage to step out into the open. He gestured for Josh and Kyra to come forward.

The coming darkness painted the landscape in a deep shade of navy blue, and Josh felt like he was running blind. He used the stable walls to guide him as he circled and stopped where his friend had, in front of the barn's huge swinging doors. Colin slipped his hands beneath the two-by-four that held the doors shut and yanked it out of its bracket. The noise it made when it landed on the cold, wet ground seemed much too loud.

Josh placed his ear against the door. Inside the stable, horses whinnied. He gritted his teeth and yanked on the handle. The door slid open about a foot but wouldn't move any more than that. He knelt down and traced the dirt beneath the door with his fingers, trying to find the obstruction.

"Don't worry about it," whispered Kyra. "We can squeeze through."

They did just that. Once inside, Josh tried to pull the door closed again but it still wouldn't budge, so he let it stay open. The reek of mold and stale manure reached his nostrils and made him gag. Dried hay crunched under his feet. A dying shaft of moonlight slipped through the shuttered window above the doors, making the place even eerier than outside. The horses continued to whinny, hurting his head.

"Okay," said Colin in a cracked and flustered voice. "That's that, I guess."

Josh watched his friend's outline as Colin sat down on an overturned bucket in front of an empty stall, held his chest, and panted. He obviously wasn't handling this very well. Josh felt horrible. He couldn't think of anything to say to his lifelong pal, and it hurt to feel so helpless. To make matters worse, Kyra walked up to Colin and placed a hand on his head, tousling his hair while she said, "We're okay." Even in the shadows, he could see Colin smile. Josh grimaced. He knew it should have been him who offered that comfort.

_Some friend I am._

Kyra looked in his direction. The thin streak of light made her dazzling green eyes glow. She left Colin and approached him. Her fingers, as soft as satin, brushed against his cheek.

"I'm sorry," Josh said.

"For what?"

"For getting us into this."

She glanced in Colin's direction. "Hey, at least you got your friend back."

"That's something, I guess."

"Yeah, I'd say it is."

Kyra strolled toward one of the horse-occupied stalls, her hips swaying with each step. Josh's eyes followed her and a faint rumbling started up in his stomach that made his hairs stand on end. He thought of old movie westerns, where the hero and his leading lady would find shelter and make love in the confines of barns much like this one. Fictional lovemaking was at its best in those fairy-tale moments, yet when he thought of throwing Kyra down and doing the same thing, the reality of it came down on him and he had to laugh. The thought of _any_ sexual act in these conditions seemed potentially hazardous, not to mention itchy.

A horse poked its head out of the gate where Kyra stood, snorting the way Josh remembered Rick Colden used to when confronting a tardy employee. _Where's Rick now?_ he wondered. _Did he survive?_ He recalled the look of shock on his boss's face while the telephone cord dangled between his fingers. Josh shook his head. _Probably not._

Kyra reached her hand out for the horse. It recoiled at first and thrashed its head. "Shush, girl," said Kyra "It's okay."

The large animal blew a gust of wind between its lips and then stuck out its nose. Kyra stroked its muzzle, running her fingers over the fine hairs atop its snout. With her opposite hand she reached up and tapped with her palm the placard hanging over the stall door.

"Charity," she said. "That's a pretty name."

Josh went over to her and wrapped his arm around her waist. "Do you ride?"

"Not since I was little," she replied. A hint of sorrow poked through her words. "The family down the street had a horse. His name was Majestic _._ They'd let me and my sister go to the stables whenever we wanted, to help out. You know, brushing him, washing him, taking him out for a walk." She leaned her head against Josh's chest. "He was so good to me. He always followed my lead. I guess he was my first love, babe."

"What happened to him?" asked Josh.

"Life. Old age. Nothing special. And not too long after he died, the family sold the farm and moved out to Brattleboro. I haven't been on a horse since. Well, there was one other time..." She paused and then said, "But I don't want to talk about that right now."

Josh nodded, sensed her yearning for comfort, and squeezed her tight. It was the least he could give her, just as she'd done for the long-silent Colin. It amazed him how much he could learn from such a simple gesture.

A loud crack broke the silence. The placard snapped back and rattled on its chain, raining splinters down on them. Charity the horse bucked, and then retreated to the rear of her boxed paddock. Kyra shrieked and Josh shoved her to the ground, covering her body with his own.

"Don't move!" a strained voice proclaimed. "Stay where you are!"

Josh glanced up and saw a shadowy figure lurking in front of the still-open barn doors. Its legs were spread wide, like a cowboy at a gunfight.

The silhouette inched closer, the thin shafts of moonlight allowing brief moments of clarity. It was an old man with silver hair and skin as wrinkled and creased as old leather. He held a rifle in his hands.

There was a clinking sound as the old man loaded another bullet into the chamber. He was only a few feet away when he pointed the barrel at Josh's head.

"Yo, McKinley, stop!" Josh heard Colin scream.

The old man spun around. Josh slid off of Kyra, put a hand on her back to signal her to keep still, and peered around their assailant's legs. Colin stood in the space between the ancient gunslinger and the exit, both of his arms raised.

"It's okay, Mr. McKinley," he said, stepping forward. "It's Colin Malloy. You remember me, don't you?"

"You Bobby O'Connor's friend?" asked the old man.

"Yes, sir. We all are."

The old man glanced over his shoulder and then turned back to Colin. He leveled his rifle.

"You guys normal?" he asked.

"Uh-huh," replied Colin.

"How do I know fer sure?"

Colin laughed. "Well, I'm talking to you, ain't I?"

"Them, too?"

"Yessir."

Old Man McKinley dropped the rifle to his side and shook his head. "Goddamn kids," he said. "You scared the bejesus outta me."

Josh stood up and helped Kyra do the same. She staggered for a moment, brushed the hair from her eyes, and then said, "We're sorry about that, sir. We didn't know anyone was here."

McKinley clicked on a flashlight and shined it in her direction. Josh watched his elderly eyes give her the once-over and a stab of resentment forced him to clench his teeth.

"It's okay, miss," said McKinley with a chuckle. "Been here by myself for a while now. Ain't been expecting no visitors."

"How long?" asked Josh.

"Don't know exactly. Maybe a week. Ah hid in the fruit cellar when some psychos started shootin' at Jim's farm. Grabbed some Spaghettios and my rifle and went a'runnin. Haven't come up since then...‌well, until the horses started rearing up again, that is."

"You've been alone this whole time?" asked Colin as he moved around the old man and stood at Josh's side.

"Yup. It's been quiet for a while now. Guess that's why y'all spooked me."

Kyra glanced at Charity, who had reclaimed her position, with her massive head poking over the corral gate. Her partner in the neighboring stall had joined her.

"You never came up to care for the horses?" asked Kyra.

McKinley's voice filled with pride. "Nope. These beauties take care a themselves, for the most. There's plenty of water in here. It runs on a filtration system Dutch Levens installed last year. And plus, they're smart buggers. They know how to save their energy." His tone became more somber. "But hey, that's enough about the horses. How's everything in town?"

"Everyone's gone," said Josh. "Well, most of them, anyway. There's us three and some more folks locked away up at the old Stone Church in Newmarket. Other than that...‌I couldn't really tell you."

"What happened?"

"We'll explain everything," said Colin, "but I need to ask you a favor first."

"What?"

"You got any beer? I could sure use a drink."

•     •     •

Frank McKinley didn't have any beer in the old farmhouse, but his liquor cabinet was a sight to behold. It was a vintage mahogany breakfront filled with at least fifty bottles, ranging from vintage Merlot to Glenlivet to a cut-rate bottle of Mad Dog. Kyra snatched a handle of V.O. off the second shelf while Mr. McKinley placed four snifters on the kitchen table and gestured for everyone to sit down.

Kyra poured drinks while they took turns telling the story of how they had come to arrive at the farm. They told Frank what happened on the day the first explosions came, how hordes of insane townsfolk descended on the streets and killed anything that moved, how the soldiers that were supposed to protect the people turned on each other. Colin spoke of his foray into the woods, how he'd gone days without sleeping while far-off screams, explosions, and the _crack_ of gunfire penetrated his brain, and how he kept warm with only a sleeping bag and a fire he kept purposefully small so as to not attract attention. Kyra spoke of Justin's foray into abusiveness, his transformation, and the Army. She explained General Stack's plan of action and the subsequent departure of the Dover Militia. Also, she made sure to not leave out the fact that they had never returned.

Josh, for his part, explicated his personal theory, buoyed by the story of Kyra's husband, that there existed a connection, though never disclosed in public, between the Rodent Flu pandemic and the attacks that occurred around the country, and, for all he knew, the world. He finished his tale abruptly, ending at the point where he entered his parents' home. All inquiries into what came next were disregarded with a wave of his hand. In no way did he want to relive that moment. He didn't think he could handle it.

He twiddled his thumbs at the silent table while his eyes gawked intently at a spot of dust on the polished tabletop. He knew Kyra was staring at him and he glanced up. Her solemn, tight-lipped expression was made all the more somber in the flickering candlelight. It looked as if she had something to say, but she kept her lips locked.

"So, what're you kids gonna do now?" asked Frank after a short while.

Josh shrugged. "I don't know. Stay put, I guess. I thought of heading to Vermont and setting up camp in the mountains, but there's about forty women and kids sitting at the Stone Church, which is pretty secure and out of the way. And we also have a bit of a transportation problem."

"How so?"

"We've only got one car. The militia took the rest."

"How's about in town? There gots to be a bunch just sitting there for the taking. You checked yet?"

"Yup. In town there's a ton of vehicles that're completely fucked, but that's about it. Kye and I saw a few that looked like they were in good shape on the side of the road heading out here, but there weren't any keys in them. Does anyone know how to hotwire a car?"

Kyra, Colin, and Frank shook their heads.

"Didn't think so."

After that came a return to silence. Everyone ignored the alcoholic concoctions sitting before them, except Josh. He was so thirsty. He downed his drink in a single gulp and then poured another. That one went down the hatch, as well.

Upon pouring his third drink, he happened to glance in Colin's direction. The expression on his friend's face scared him. He looked defeated. Josh remembered the pact the three friends, including Bobby, had made in their paranoid youth. Part of their mantra was " _No one gets left behind"._ He supposed this probably had something to do with how Colin now acted, and decided it would be best to get it all out in the open. Josh tipped back the glass and the third drink disappeared. He reached across the table and tugged on Colin's shirtsleeve.

"Colin, where's Bobby?"

"He's dead."

"Huh?"

"Bobby's dead, Josh."

"How do you know?"

Colin rolled his eyes. "Because I found him, dumbass. I showed up at his gramp's house and waited for him. When he didn't show, I went to the clearing and set up camp, and then headed back to the house for some food. He was in there, Josh. In the pantry. A place I hadn't looked before." He gulped. "His head was fucking gone, man. There was so much blood." Tears rolled down his cheeks. His voice was hoarse and broken. "The only reason I knew it was him was because of that stupid fucking red flannel he always wore. The one with the huge rips in it." He swallowed hard then repeated, "There was so much blood."

Kyra leaned over and rubbed Colin's back, glancing from him to Josh and back again like a concerned mother. Frank McKinley's eyes dropped to the table as if he wanted no part in this discussion. Josh's heart sank, but a newfound drive infused his mind. It was possibly a result of the liquor, but he didn't care. All he knew was that no matter how much he'd miss Bobby, Colin was there with him now. Kyra had said that earlier, and she was right. _That_ was what counted.

He let Colin continue without interruption while Kyra continued to rub his slender back. "I puked all over the place," he said, "and just left him there. I didn't even bury his body. I just ran out to the tent and curled up in a ball. Some friend I am."

Colin wailed. Josh stood on wobbly knees, pulled his friend up by the shirt collar, and embraced him.

"I know," said Josh, holding Colin at arm's length. His friend had never looked so ashamed. "I'm gonna miss him, too," he said, "Just like I miss Sophia and my mom and dad. It's all right to cry. I know I have."

Colin wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. "So what happened to them?"

"They're gone." Sorrow eddied in the pit of his stomach. "I can't talk about it right now, but I promise I will later." He looked at Kyra and said, "Later, I'll tell you guys _everything._ "

"Okay," said Colin, while Kyra smiled. It was somber and kind.

"Just remember," Josh said, "that I'm here for all you guys. Shit, we're here for _each other._ Even you, Mr. McKinley."

In a show of rare emotion, the corner of Frank's mouth twitched.

Colin hugged him again. "Thanks, bud."

Josh winked at Kyra from over Colin's shoulder. "No," he said, "thank you...‌for giving me a reason to live."

•     •     •

A faint spark of light was all Josh could distinguish when he opened his eyes. He found himself on the floor with Kyra asleep on his chest. Gently, he lifted her off of him, placed her head on the ground, and sat up. The pile of down blankets covering them had made them both sweat even though his breath created a swirl of frigid mist each time he exhaled.

The candle on the coffee table flickered, leaning to one side as it melted from the inside out. Colin was sprawled out on the sofa while Frank McKinley dozed in his easy chair, his snores sounding like a baritone saxophone blown under water.

_I should be asleep, like them_ , he thought. He rubbed the nape of Kyra's neck, and when looked down at her in the virtual darkness she was young again, just as she had been during their otherworldly encounter in the loft. He leaned over and kissed the corner of her mouth. She tasted sweet.

"Sorry," he whispered, "that I never really talked to you until everything went to shit."

Pain stabbed at his brain, stemming from behind his eyes. He should have known better than to down six glasses of V.O. without so much as watering it down. He stood up and braced for the dizziness sure to follow, which it did. His eyes looked toward the kitchen. All he needed was a drink, he told himself, something non-alcoholic, and he'd feel better.

The cold tile on the kitchen floor made his feet bunch up, which caused his stagger to become more of a buckling lurch. He leaned over the faucet and lifted the handle. The tap sputtered and burped, but no water came out. He sighed, shuffled his way to the fridge, and opened the door. The topography of the refrigerator's contents, painted in shades of blue and yellow in the soft afterglow of the moon, reminded him of an M.C. Escher painting. He ran his hand over their slick, cool surfaces, but with his mind spinning he couldn't tell the difference between a month-old milk jug and a gallon of water.

It didn't seem to matter any longer, however—not his vertigo, not his thirst, nothing. Everything swirled together. He felt like he'd eaten a magical mushroom cap.

_Joshua_ , a familiar voice said.

He smiled, even though the voice was different now than it had been in the loft. It was heaver, more concrete, more _real_ than before. He turned around.

She stood in the doorway that led outside, the sliver of moon alighting her silhouette. Her hair didn't float around her this time; instead it rested on her shoulders and flowed down in a gentle swoop to her belly. He drew closer to her, feeling weightless. The woman neither backed away nor disappeared.

"Am I dreaming?" he asked.

She replied to him, though her lips didn't move. _You always ask that. You tell me._

"It doesn't _feel_ like a dream."

He found himself in front of her now. She was a few inches shorter than him, the top of her head level with his chin. Her characteristics were vague, however. He squinted in an attempt to force clarity onto her blurred features, but it didn't work. She remained an indistinct phantom in the valley of the tangible, with a hint of a mouth, nose, and eyes, but nothing more.

He touched her arm and she didn't pull away when his fingertips fell upon her. The gown she wore was satin, like the sheets in the make-believe bed he and Kyra had made love in. There was the smell of jasmine in the air.

"Am I going crazy?" he asked.

_Not at all_ , she replied.

"What _is_ all of this?"

_I have something I need to show you._

All he felt was calm, and it became clear to him everything that he _wasn't_ feeling. There was no confusion, no rage, and no anguish. Energy radiated throughout his body, cleansing him of all those futile emotions, leaving only curiosity behind.

"Show me," he said.

The air around her erupted in a plume of white flame. The brightness illuminated her, and for the briefest of moments he was able to see her fully. She was beautiful, with high-arching cheekbones and sky blue eyes. Her skin was deeply tanned, but her hair—the same hair that had danced for him earlier and now lay still—was strawberry-blonde.

The intensity of the light emanating from her became more than he could bear. He closed his eyes, but still the brightness persisted. A piercing screech emerged, threatening to burst his eardrums. Despite this, he felt no panic. He simply closed his eyes, hunched over, covered his ears, and waited.

A sensation of weightlessness overcame him, and soon wind licked his flesh and he felt very cold. He imagined himself rising above the treetops, reaching high into the atmosphere until he ascended into the blackness of space. Never once did he open his eyes to see what was happening. A knowledge buried deep within him knew that his fragile mind couldn't endure the sight.

The shrill whine suddenly stopped, and he was on solid ground again. Soft fingers brushed the back of his hand. He opened his eyes.

The lady stood beside him in a field. Fires smoldered all around them, spewing from ruined automobiles and a tank whose turret had been rendered a twisted husk. The lady turned her back to him and walked away, forging a twisting path through the wreckage. Her feet appeared to hover inches above the ground. Josh followed her.

"I know this place," he said.

_Of course you do._

James came to mind, as well as Roger, Kyra's friend's husband. He shook his head to rid it of the vision. "I don't want to be here," he whispered. "Take me back."

_No._

She walked onward, Josh staying on her heels. He tried to grab her arm, to spin her around and tell her to stop, but unlike before, his hand passed right through her. There was a moment where he thought he saw her shake her head in disgust. The act seemed peculiarly familiar, but he couldn't place where he'd seen it.

When they crested the next hill a wasteland of corpses appeared. The bodies were strewn about and piled on top of each other like discarded rubbish. Josh felt dizzy from the sight and started to hold his breath to save his nostrils from the reek of decay, but when he sucked the air in, there were no scents at all, save for that constant whiff of jasmine.

"Oh my God," he said. "They were massacred."

_Yes, they were._

They progressed through the minefield of carnage and entered the forest. It was there, between the first rows of evergreens, that Josh noticed a man squatting against a tree. His skin had cracked and peeled and his hands were twisted into claws. He was a virtual twin of the creatures he, Colin, and Kyra had fled from earlier that day. The monster, who held a machine gun in those deformed hands, suddenly peered around the trunk of the tree and faced the approaching pair. Josh wanted to run away, but the lady shook her head and gestured for him to wait. The creature then leapt up and held its gun at the ready. Its head swung from side to side and its eyes looked right at Josh, stained yellow with streaks of red and burning with rage. Josh jumped back and held his arms over his face while panic raced through him.

"No!" he shouted. "Don't come any closer!"

_Calm yourself_ , said the lady. _Look._

Josh fanned his fingers and peeked between them. The disfigured man had withdrawn. He sat back down at his post with the gun again resting in his lap. Josh walked up to him gingerly and waved in its face. The thing acted as if he wasn't there.

"What's going on here?" he asked, facing the lady.

Her vaguely featured head nodded. _This realm exists on the outskirts of the physical plane. We cannot affect anything and nothing can affect us. We can observe, and nothing more._

"This is unreal," Josh replied. "Say I believe you on this. Why did that thing act like it did when we got close to it?"

_His children carry a piece of Him within them._

"Who's ' _He'_?"

_He who walks with a foot in both worlds. We must hurry, now._

"But wait, what does he want?"

_In time. Come._

She pressed further into the woods. Josh's mind raced as he followed her. Everything he saw seemed so real, so substantial, and yet the skeptical part of him wasn't so sure. This part wanted to pick up something solid, like a stone, and bash it into her blurred face while screaming, "This is reality!" He shuddered and brushed that feeling aside.

At the cusp of a clearing deep in the forest, the lady paused. She turned to him ever so slightly and once again her beauty was clear to him.

_You must be ready for this_ , she said.

"I think I am," he replied, though in truth he wasn't so sure.

She crossed the breach. Josh trailed her.

He wished he hadn't.

At least a thousand of the deformed monstrosities were packed together in the clearing, virtually shoulder-to-shoulder with each other. They still wore the varied costumes of their former lives: fatigues, flannels, smocks, jeans, knit caps, halter tops, all tattered and frayed like the dead skin of a molting snake.

The swarm knelt as one and gazed at the sky with their feral eyes, their mouths moving in unison. Josh weaved through them, keeping his gaze on the lady, who was still ahead of him, and her image flickered. He feared that she would disappear and leave him alone and vulnerable in the midst of this pack of wild beasts. But she didn't fade away; instead her likeness thickened, and she escorted him to the edge of the clearing as if nothing had happened.

There, the action was constant. One group of beasties (Josh suddenly couldn't remember the name the General had called them) huddled in a circle beside a large military carrier, engaged in a violent feeding frenzy. Arms and legs thrashed about, spilling trails of blood and flesh into the air. Josh covered his mouth. It seemed that even in this other realm his gag reflex worked just fine. Then, from the corner of his eye, he noticed movement in the darkness beneath the military carrier's canvas-covered rear end. He drew closer and peered inside.

There were people in the vehicle. _Real_ people, some of whom he knew, packed in like sardines, looking absolutely terrified while blood leaked from their wounds.

He tried to peel back the canvas flap, but his hand passed through it, just as it had with the lady. He screamed as loud as he could, "Get out of here! Now!" but they didn't move. His terror reached its apex just as the lady appeared beside him.

_That is enough._

At the sound of those words, his surroundings went hazy and the world spun. He again felt that sensation of flying, only this time it was out of control, like he was on an airplane without a pilot. He opened his mouth to cry out, but the wind snatched all sound away. A barrage of horrible thoughts hammered away at the inside of his skull. _I don't wanna die... ‌I want my mommy...‌please, God, no...‌take him, not me...‌we did this to ourselves._ He felt his consciousness start to slip away from him and fought to stay awake.

_Open your eyes_ , said the lady.

The torment ceased the moment he did so. He found himself surrounded by a white mist that stretched for as far as the eye could see. When he glanced down, he saw his feet standing on shifting wisps of cotton. The peaceful phenomenon from earlier returned. He looked at the lady, whose body shimmered at a distance that could have been as close as an inch away or as far as a mile.

_I am sorry_ , she said. _I had to show you._

"They were helpless," he said. "I should have done something."

_You could not have. As I told you, we could not interfere._

"But why? What's the point of this? Why did you have to show me that?"

_You need to understand what faces you. You must know the consequences._

"What consequences?"

_Those that will befall you should you stay where you are._

A picture flashed through his brain. In it he saw an army of those twisted horrors trudging through the cold New Hampshire night, tearing through homes, killing all who still hid inside them.

"They're looking for...‌me?"

_Yes._

"Why?"

_Because you are important._

He shook his head. "You're talking gibberish, lady. I'm important? Yeah, right."

_It is true. A great many people are depending on you. You must protect them._

"You obviously haven't seen how well I've done that lately."

_I have seen what I needed to. As have you, Joshua._

Josh stepped back on the cloud and crossed his arms over his chest. Defiance took over despite his calm. "Okay, now. How do you know my name? Shit, lady, how did you know how to find me in the first place?"

_I know everything about you. I know how your life has been stunted by fear. It is this same fear that has stopped you from moving forward. This same fear has caused you to turn away the ones who might love you._ She paused, and then said, _The same fear that you were able to hold at bay when you ended the torment that afflicted Sophia._

"Hold on there. Time out. _I_ didn't kill her. _You_ did."

_Untrue. I did guide your hand, but I did not force you. I cannot command your actions, Joshua. All I can do is present to you the correct choice. It is up to you to follow. I cannot make you do what you do not have within yourself already._

Her words rang true and the tranquility he felt couldn't stop his heart from sinking.

"So I'm a killer," he said.

_No_ , she replied, her disembodied voice brimming with compassion. _You are a survivor._

Josh went to slouch with his hands in his pockets, but when he did so his pockets were nowhere to be found. He looked down to find that he was naked, standing there in all his stark glory for the entire cosmos to see, and yet all he felt was warmth. He looked up at her and tried to smile.

"I'm sorry, but this is a lot to take in."

_I understand._

"Yeah, but...‌hey, what's your name, anyway? If you're gonna keep coming to me like this, I'd like to know what to call you."

For the first time the lady sounded uncertain when she said, _I do not have one._

"Isabella," whispered Josh. A tinge of sadness embraced him. "That's what Marcy wanted to name her first kid, if she had a girl. How about that?"

An illusion of a smile crossed her shadowy lips. _I like that_ , she said.

Josh felt a sudden surge of joy flow through his veins. It amazed him how comfortable he now felt, as if there was nothing more natural in the world than standing in the clouds, naked, with a woman who was really nothing more than a ghost. A single question ran through his mind.

"What happens now?"

The newly christened Isabella circled him. _You must leave this place_ , she said. _There is nothing but death here._

"Where do I go?"

_South. As far as you can go, until the land ends and the sea begins, the southernmost tip of the peninsula._

"Are you talking about Florida? Why Florida?"

_That is where salvation lies._

"What kind of salvation?"

_That is not known at this time._

"So I'm just supposed to take your word?"

_You have no choice._

Josh chuckled. "I kinda figured that."

_You must be cautious, however. There will be obstacles along the way, as well as others like you. Some will be there to help, some to impede. You must find those who wish to assist, for the journey will not end until the covenant is completed._

"Where will I find them?"

_Do not worry. You will find each other. In time._

Marcy came to mind again. He saw her the way he did in his dreams, willowy, pale, and in pain. All of a sudden he feared for her safety.

"What about..." he began, but then shut his mouth. His thoughts were starting to fail him.

_She is one of you_ , replied Isabella. _Do not fret for her, Joshua. She is protected. Her cries do not fall on deaf ears. There are others who will answer that call, not you._

A deep, vibrating rumble shook the atmosphere, and Isabella turned away. Her obscure face rose to the hidden sky. _It is time_ , she said. _I am sure you have felt it already. The doubt. You must go. He is coming._

"Will I see you again?"

For the second time she seemed uncertain. _Only when it is safe to do so. Please hurry. I can block Him from you for a short time, but there are no guarantees._

She placed her palm on his forehead. The light that followed was blinding.

•     •     •

Kyra cupped her hands around her mouth. "Josh!" she yelled. The murkiness of dawn coated the surrounding woods in gloom. A dense fog hung in the air. In the distance, animal cries could be heard. For a moment, she thought it foolish to be calling attention to herself out there where demons might be lurking, but then she imagined a world in which the man she now adored did not exist and decided it was a risk she needed to take.

"Dammit, Josh! Where are you?"

Colin came tearing around the corner. "Did you find him?" he asked.

Kyra rolled her eyes. "What do you think?"

"You're right. Sorry, stupid question."

She watched Colin turn around and form his own makeshift blow horn, calling out the same as she. She sensed something approaching and a shiver rapped against her insides.

A twig snapped and her head spun in the direction of the trees to the left of the neglected rose garden. She heard a moan. It was a sound she knew.

"Colin, over here!"

Kyra broke into a dead sprint with Colin following close behind. She busted through the foliage at the edge of the woods without care for her wellbeing. Branches whipped her face, opening tiny cuts on her cheeks and neck. Pinpricks stabbed at her nerves, but she didn't care. She had to find him. She had to find Josh. She'd be damned if she gave up that sense of finally _belonging_ without a fight.

After only about fifty yards she found him. He stood beneath a maple tree whose branches sagged like the shoulders of a defeated soldier, his body shivering. His arms were wrapped around his chest and his legs were crossed. He wasn't wearing any clothes.

Kyra jumped in front of him. "Josh!" she proclaimed. "What're you doing out here?"

He didn't say anything. His eyes stared off into space, vacant as a corpse's.

She grabbed his arms and shook him. "Josh!" she screamed, her saliva spraying his face. Still he said nothing.

A pair of hands wrapped around her waist and pulled her away. "Calm down," Colin's voice said. She kicked and screamed against his grasp, but the wiry young man held on tight. His hand shot up and covered her mouth.

"Shush," he said. "Listen."

She heard a low rumbling off in the distance, a strange sound like a crowd cheering on a football team inside a far-off, packed stadium.

"What is that?" she asked.

Colin faced her, his blue eyes wide. "I'm not sure, but it can't be anything good."

Kyra glanced from Colin to Josh and then sighed. He hadn't moved a muscle. She slowly approached him, stood on her tiptoes, draped her arms around his neck, and kissed his lips.

"C'mon, buddy," said Colin. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Josh's eyelids fluttered. "Uh...‌nothing?" he said.

Kyra stepped back, her heart rising from the pit of her stomach. She smiled and said, "Hey there."

"Hi," he replied, and then he looked down at himself. "Huh. I guess I'm naked here too."

"Huh?"

Colin stepped up, took off his jacket, and handed it to him. "Yep, you are. And it definitely ain't a sight I wanna get too used to seeing."

"Thanks, wiseass," Josh said with a chuckle.

"No problemo."

Josh turned in Kyra's direction. "How did I get here?"

She sighed. "I don't have a clue. All I know is I woke up an hour ago and you were gone. So I woke up Colin and went searching for you."

"How about Mr. McKinley?"

"He's still asleep," giggled Kyra. "The guy snores like a wild hog. Not pleasant."

Josh cocked his head. "What's that noise?"

"Not sure," answered Colin. "I just noticed it a few seconds ago."

A worried expression came over Josh's face. "Colin, go wake up Mac and then get the Volvo from the farm. It's not too far away from here. We have to get back to the church, and quick. She bought us some time, but I don't know how much."

"Who did what?"

"Never mind. I'll tell you later. See if you guys can figure out a way we can get the people over at the church out of here as quick as we can." He glanced down again. "Oh, and find me some clothes, too."

"Sure thing, my man," answered Colin, before he raced for the house.

"What's going on?" asked Kyra.

"They're coming," he said. His half-smile and wary eyes scared her. It didn't help when he said, "We have to get out of town like right fucking now."

"Why?" she asked. "Where are we supposed to go?"

He smiled. In that moment, he seemed very far away.

"Miami," he said.

## CHAPTER 23

### DEPARTURE

Kyra followed Stacy's distant stare. Thick black clouds swelled on the horizon, blocking out the sun. The sky beneath those clouds appeared hazy ( _it must be one hell of a storm_ , she thought) and the distant rapping of the falling rain created a cadenced, percussive sound.

She took her eyes off the approaching mist and glanced at her friend. Stacy looked so pathetically sad. Her face slumped, her eyes slackened, and her cheeks sagged into jowls. The first drops of rain fell and Little Roger fussed in her lap, but Stacy ignored her son's pleas.

"You can't do this," said Kyra.

Stacy sniffled. "You don't know," she replied.

"I don't know what, exactly?"

"What it feels like to be alone."

"Like hell."

Stacy turned, her eyes glistening with bitterness. "You've _never_ been alone, Kye. You've _always_ had people who wanted to take care of you. And don't you go and give me that whole 'I was stuck in a bad marriage' crap! You could've left Justin _years_ ago, but you didn't. No, don't you say a word. You stayed because it was _convenient_. You could've had any man out there. It was your choice. And there's no way you can convince me otherwise."

"But..."

"No! You don't get it! Look at you! Justin's gone, and you go cradle robbing. Now you've got some kid to protect you. Easy as pie for good ol' Kyra. But some of us don't have that option. Some of us have _no one._ So get over yourself."

Kyra wanted to snap back at her but bit her tongue. "That's not true," she said. "You have us. We're family now. We gotta stick together."

"No," said Stacy with a defiant shake of her head. "Roger's all I've ever had. He's out there somewhere. I _know_ he is. He's going to come back. You'll see."

"But Josh said—"

"I don't care what that fucker thinks," snapped Stacy. "He can't know what happened to them. But _I_ do. I know Roger's _alive._ I can feel it. He'll come back and take me and Little Roger away from here. You'll see."

"You're delusional, Stacy," muttered Kyra.

Stacy glared at her. "Fuck you, Kye," she said coldly. "Get away from me."

Kyra slapped her thighs and stood up. "Fine, Stacy. I'll be inside if you want to chat."

"Eat shit and die, bitch."

With a frustrated sigh Kyra walked away, leaving her friend sitting in the rain with her baby in her lap. She stayed quiet as she made her way up the path toward the church. _How could she say those things?_ she thought. _Why is she being so cruel?_

She shook her head. No one needed to tell her the reason. She'd experienced much the same thing many times over in her life. It was pain, and the desperate need to share it.

Josh greeted her when she reached the walkway. He leaned against the building with his hands in his jacket pockets. He shivered, yet even then he radiated an aura of stability she found immensely attractive. His hair was tousled just so, off to the left and half-covering his right eye, beads of water dripping down his face, and the smile he gave her oozed confidence. She realized that Stacy had been right. She really _was_ the lucky one.

"How is she?" asked Josh.

Kyra shook her head.

"She's not coming?"

"No."

He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "Oh well," he said. "We can't make anyone go if they don't want to."

Kyra's chest heaved. She didn't really want to leave her friend and her child behind, even after what Stacy had said to her only moments before. But she would gladly go on without her if Josh was dead set on leaving. She felt a stitch of guilt because of this.

"I guess we can't save everyone," she said, and then started to cry. Josh pulled her into his chest. She pressed the side of her face into his coat while he caressed her hair. This comforted her, which caused even more guilt to surface.

_You can't even save yourself_ , was all she thought.

•     •     •

The light rain became a downpour, saturating Josh and everything around him. Frank McKinley barked orders at Colin, his gruff voice easily rising above the rain's clamor.

Colin's hands worked at a rapid pace as he tried to tie a thick rope into a knot. He was having a great amount of difficulty doing so. Josh chuckled as he held the giant tarp flush against the crude structure's underbelly and watched his friend work.

"Never much of a Boy Scout, were you?" Josh teased.

"Shut up," Colin snapped back. His stringy hair dripped rainwater into his eyes. "You couldn't do any better."

"Pretty much, but I didn't volunteer, dumbass."

"Go fuck yourself, bro."

A few minutes and a couple jabs later, and the deed was done. The three exhausted laborers dashed across the front lawn until they stood beneath the protective shelter of the front entrance. Josh admired their work.

In the middle of the drenched, rock-covered patio were two old hay carriages. The bright blue tarpaulins they'd fastened to the top of each were propped up by four shoddily constructed arches built out of discarded lumber from Frank's back yard. They'd been nailed together in haste and they sagged a bit, but they would have to do.

A pair of horses stood in front of each carriage, fully harnessed. Their breath formed spirals of steam as it exited their nostrils. Josh looked at Colin and smiled.

"What're you thinking?" asked Colin.

"Me? Oh, just how much I feel like Lewis and Clark right about now."

Colin grinned. "So who's Lewis and who's Clark?"

"Your call."

"I'll be Clark. He was the skinny one."

They both laughed.

Frank rolled his eyes at them. "You two're daft, you know that?"

Colin nodded. "Been said before, my main man. And it's true."

Approaching footsteps from behind broke up the brief foray into comedy. It was Kyra. "Everything all set?" she asked.

Josh answered. "Yup. All loaded up and ready for takeoff."

He turned and looked at those gathered around them. They were definitely a motley bunch, and a much smaller group than he expected. There were only six women and fifteen children who had decided to make the trek. Andy and Francis were among them, and for that Josh was thankful.

The rest of the Dover survivors—more than half of them—lolled around in the back of the main hall, their expressions dour.

"This is it?" asked Colin.

Jessica Lure stepped forward, Zachary clinging to her neck. "No one else wants to go," she said. "They think the troops are going to come back and they want to be here when they do."

Josh grimaced. "You told them what I said, right?"

"Yeah." Jessica shrugged and put her palms out. "But the story's kind of unbelievable, Josh. Can you really blame them?"

"I guess not." He gave her a sideways glance. "Do _you_ believe it?"

"I'm not sure. But for some reason I trust you." Her son wiggled in her arms and she smiled. "Besides, I owe it to Zach. I'd do anything to protect him...‌even if that means leaving town in a horse-drawn buggy."

Josh nodded while he examined the others. They gazed at him the same way Jessica did, with the faintest glimmer of hope hidden behind a blockade of reservation. There was Yvette Kilty, a single woman in her mid-thirties who'd been the town hermit until a week ago; Luanda Anon, a tall, imposing woman of color who held a prominent position on the school board; Emily Steadman, an elderly lady of around seventy with hair turning blue around the temples and a skeletal, malnourished frame; and finally Mary Kincaid and Alice Carpenter, a pair of middle-aged bandits who were Dover lifers and friends since high school, oh so many years ago. Huddled among them were the young ones, the children without parents or guardians. It made Josh proud to see that his group had chosen to take on the added responsibility of caring for these children when no one else would, and he would gladly partake in that duty. He owed it to Sophia, to his parents, to Mrs. Flannigan and the rest of the seventh-graders. He would repay them all by protecting these kids' lives with his own. It was the least he could do.

"Okay then," he said, giving one final, pleading glance to those who remained. "Let's get on with this."

•     •     •

Wet leaves sloshed beneath the carriage wheels. The plodding clicks of the horses' hooves, combined with the patter of raindrops on top of the canvas shell, created a calming, metronome-like sound. It was so all-encompassing that Kyra couldn't even hear the rattle of the Volvo's engine, which was ahead of them with Colin at the wheel. He'd been adamant that he wouldn't ride like a pioneer. _What'll he do when there's no more gas to fill the tank_? she thought.

The horses sped up, and for a moment she thought they might run into the cart in front of them. She eased back on the reins. "Easy, Charity. Easy, Marmaduke," she said. They followed her commands and slowed to a more appropriate amble. Even with the dank and cold weather making her bones ache, she managed to crack a smile.

"It's the dawn of a new day," she whispered.

Emily Steadman squeezed onto the bench beside her. "Do you mind if I have a turn?" the old woman asked. "I used to do this all the time when I was young. It would be good to feel that way again. Young, I mean." Her tired gray eyes stared at Kyra from their wrinkled sockets with childlike glee. _If only I could be like that when I'm her age... ‌if I ever get to be that old_, thought Kyra.

"Sure thing," she said, and handed Emily the reins. The old lady nestled her bony hindquarters into the bench. Kyra patted her back and crawled into the rear of the carriage.

Josh awaited her there, sitting on the timber planks and playing cards with Andy and Francis. She sat next to him, snuck her arm beneath his coat, and flattened her hand against his bare back. He shivered and grinned.

"Hey, beautiful," he said.

"What're you guys doing?" she asked.

The twinkle in his eye was intoxicating. "Teaching my buds to play blackjack."

She kissed him on the cheek. "Corrupting them young, are we?"

"For sure."

She heard Frank McKinley call out from the lead carriage, so she disengaged from Josh and crawled back to the front of the coach. When she poked her head out from under the tarp, she saw the sign. ' **JCT I-95 SOUTH'** , it read. Below the sign was a body, resting against the post with a crow on its shoulder. The eyes had been plucked out. The corpse offered her a lipless smirk as it lazed, and for a moment she swore she saw its lifeless hand twitch. Emily yelped when her eyes came across it, as well. Kyra withdrew back into the confines of the carriage. For the first time, it struck her that what they were doing was real, and she began to shake all over.

She put the image of the corpse out of her mind and made her way back to her lover's side, bathing in his body heat for comfort. "We're on our way," she whispered into his ear. Josh bobbed his head and squeezed her tight. Dimness spread through the interior of their new home of canvas and wood, which meant dusk wouldn't be too far behind.

"What now?" she asked.

Josh smiled and said, "We take the road less traveled."

The small wagon train climbed the highway and headed south. Kyra snuggled into Josh's lap and closed her eyes. Their journey was just beginning. With any luck it would be a safe one, but she knew that optimism was misplaced. No one knew what lay around the next bend. They were now driven by blind faith: faith in their survival instincts, faith in each other, and faith in a young man she was starting to love but didn't really know all that well. It scared her immensely, but when she looked up and saw him gazing down at her with his kind, brown eyes, her apprehension dwindled, at least a little bit.

"Sunshine state, here we come," he said.

"How long before we get there?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Couldn't tell you. But hey, life's a journey, right?"

Yes, indeed, it is.

## END NOTE

Thank you, my dear friends, for taking this journey with me. I appreciate your interest in the world I've created. I hope beyond hope that I have entertained you, and anticipate that this re-edited (and free!) version of _The Fall: The Rift Book I_ fixes many of the problems that have bothered me since I originally released it in April of 2010. If you enjoyed this book, please look out for the original sequels, _Dead of Winter, Death Springs Eternal_ , and _The Summer Son_ , all of which are currently available. Or, if you would like to read the updated version of this series, it is now available in one volume, _The Rift_ , completely re-edited and with ten thousand words of added content.

Feel free to email Jesse and myself at rjduperreauthor@gmail.com if you have anything you'd like to say.

We look forward to hearing from you!

Peace.

Robert J. Duperre

## ALSO BY ROBERT J. DUPERRE

**The Rift Series**

_The Fall_

_Dead of Winter_

_Death Springs Eternal_

_The Summer Son_

**The Breaking World**

**(with David Dalglish)**

_Dawn of Swords_

_Wrath of Lions_

_Blood of Gods_

**Standalone Novel**

_Silas: A Supernatural Thriller_

**Short Story Collections**

_The Gate: 13 Dark and Odd Tales_

_The Gate 2: 13 Tales of Isolation and Despair_

**The Infinity Trials**

_Boy in the Mirror_

_Wolves at the Door_

_Lost in the Shadows_

_Queen of the Dead_
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, events, persons, and locations are used in a fictitious and imaginative manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, circumstances, or locales are purely coincidental.

Cover and Interior Design by Catherine Santos Young

Edited by Ashley Davis

Copyright © 2012 by Robert J. Duperre

Illustrations © 2010 by Jesse David Young

Cover Art © 2010 by Jesse David Young

ISBN # 1450579973

EAN # 9781450579971 
