Now there was just…Benny Shore, the principal of Greenlawn High School. Just Mr. Shore and his stern voice and disapproving glare. No running in the halls! Where’s your hall pass? Don’t throw food in the cafeteria! What’s wrong with you kids? What are you, animals? Savages? Do you think this school is somewhere to run free and wild? Is that it?

A block away from his house, Shore stopped his Jeep and jerked at the reflection of himself. That silly, sweating, trembling middle aged man who was broken, shattered, reduced to pieces like Humpty fucking Dumpty. He had to think, he had to reason.

Yes, he had to get home.

To Phyllis and little Stevie and Melody. Yes, he had to get to them and gather them up, get them out of town before the madness got them, too, and they did something truly horrible. He would not let his family be sullied like that. He could not and would not allow it.

Drive, you idiot.

He made Tessler and saw people standing on the street, looking either lost or mad and maybe they were both. Some woman was laughing uncontrollably on the sidewalk. Just beside herself. And as Shore passed he saw why. There was a little hill that led down through the grass to the river. And in the water, maybe ten feet out, was a baby stroller bobbing…something small and pink bobbing next to it. She had pushed it down the hill, laughing maniacally as it bumped its way to the river and went into the drink.

Shore sped up.

They were all crazy just as he had been. Down the block from his own house a girl was getting raped by a couple men, right there on the lawn of a house. And like the crazy mother, she was not only laughing, but crying out with mad ecstasy. Yes, this was the world, the new and not so shiny world of Greenlawn.

Shore pulled into his driveway and ran up to the porch.

He could smell supper cooking as he entered the door…spices and herbs. Phyllis was preparing the evening meal, humming as she always did. He could hear her chopping things and dicing things on the cutting board. Water was boiling and steam made the air in the house heavier than it already was. Shore mopped perspiration from his face.

“Phyllis!” he called out. “Phyllis!”

She kept humming and he darted into the kitchen. There were carrots and celery and potatoes chopped on the table. Two big pots of water boiling on the stove. The oven preheating. Jesus, the heat in there was unbearable, just stagnant and consuming like midday in a tropical jungle. The windows above the sink were steamed white. Water was dripping.

“Phyllis!” he called again.

“What is it, Benny?” her voice said, coming from the doorway that led into the pantry.

“We have to leave! We have to get out of town!” he said, pulling off his coat and loosening his tie. “C’mon, something’s happening out there! We have to get out of here right now! Get the kids and your Aunt Una! We have to go right now!”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, dear,” Phyllis said. “You’re overreacting. We’ll have supper and talk about it.”

“Goddammit, we’re leaving! We’re leaving right now!”

Before he could make the pantry door, Phyllis came walking out, completely naked, her body moist with a sheen of sweat. Her eyes glittered like jewels, shining and glimmering, an odd almost reddish tint to them.

And her head was shaven completely bald.

“What in the hell are you doing?” Shore said, even though something in his belly already knew the answer to that one.

“I’m making supper,” she said, her eyes wide and staring.

He kept shaking his head. “But your hair…Phyllis, listen to me, we’re leaving—”

“Oh, no we’re not,” she said and came right at him, was on him well before he could do anything about it. “We’re staying, Benny, we’re all staying, staying, staying…”

And as she spoke, the gleaming butcher knife kept coming down, finding Shore’s throat, his eyes, his chest, his belly, until he fell at her feet and still the knife came and kept coming until the hairless, insane thing that had been his wife was spattered with drops of blood…

 

32

Mike Hack had the girl roped-up and he dragged her down the alley, kicking her when she wouldn’t move. He had caught her digging through an overturned garbage can and jumped on her, beating her senseless. Like him, she was naked. A scavenger. Once she was unconscious, he dragged her into the Sinclair’s backyard. Then he cut some clothesline from their clothes poles and tied her up.

Bring me some gee-gee, some nice young gee-gee and don’t come back without it.

That’s what Mr. Chalmers had said.

He would be pleased with what Mike brought him.

“Move piggy!” Mike told the girl, yanking her along. “Move, piggy, piggy, piggy!”

The girl snarled at him. She was naked, streaked with dirt, her hair hanging over her face, stinking like the garbage she had been feeding on. Mike did not know who she was. He had never seen her before. He figured she was from some other neighborhood, come raiding, stealing what was theirs.

Those other neighborhoods, they’re gonna try and take what we got, so we got to hit them first. We gotta take what they got. Their women, their food, their weapons.

Oh yes, Mr. Chalmers was going to be pleased that Mike captured one of them. And a young one, too. Female. When she was out cold, Mike had fondled her pert, upturned breasts and the wetness between her legs. It was the smell of this more than anything that had intrigued him.

But he was hungry.

God, how hungry he was.

He had been thinking of meat ever since Matt and he had tried to steal the meat in that yard and were ambushed. Now Matt was dead. The others had gotten him. Mike felt no remorse over this. His simple reptile brain had inserted its practical impulses: feed, fight, flee, find shelter.

The girl hissed at him and Mike kicked her, being careful never to get in too close so she could use her nails or teeth on him.

Up until five or six hours before, her name had been Leslie Towers. She was an honor roll student, a member of the Key Club and president of the freshman student body. That was five or six hours before. Now who and what she was was really anyone’s guess.

Mike kicked her again and paused.

He was smelling meat again. Savory, juicy meat. But not raw. Cooked. A pleasant, mouth-watering odor of smoked meat. Delicious. He forgot about Mr. Chalmers momentarily and followed the meat smell. He dragged the girl along down the alley until he reached the Kenning’s yard.

Oh, the meat.

A carcass of dog was spitted over a low fire, the air redolent with the fine, juicy smells of its dripping shanks. Mr. Kenning was squatting there, slowly turning it over the flames with absolute patience and absolute rapture. His primitive mind was fascinated by the cooking meat, the flickering flames.

Mike knew he had to have some of that meat.

One way or another.

But the girl snarled again and Mr. Kenning turned. He had a knife in one hand. He rose from the fire, his body greasy with yellow dog fat he had smeared over it and slicked his hair back with.

“Are you hungry, boy?” he said.

Mike nodded.

“I have a nice dog here. It’s very tasty. I will share it with you if you will share what you have with me.”

Mike’s simple brain tried to reason it out, but reasoning was getting harder and harder. Mr. Chalmers would be angry if he didn’t bring the female to him. But Mike did not care. He wanted the meat. And he could have it without a fight, just by sharing. Simple animal desire quickly overcame reasoning.

“What do you bring me?” Mr. Kenning asked. “What do you offer?”

“This,” Mike said, yanking on the clothesline that snared the girl’s wrists and dumping her into the grass.

Mr. Kenning appraised her. “Lay it at my feet.”

Mike dragged the girl over to him and Mr. Kenning kicked her until she stopped thrashing. He sniffed her length, licked her throat, slid a finger into her. He nodded. The offering was pleasing to him.

Using his knife, he cut a greasy slab of meat from the dog and handed it to Mike. It was hot, sizzling, but Mike tore at it with his teeth, filling himself with its salty richness.

Together, wordless, they ate.

When they were done, Mr. Kenning raped the girl. Then he showed Mike how to do the same…

 

33

“Listen to me, Dick,” Louis said to the mud-covered man with the axe, the man who had once been Dick Starling. “Just listen to me, Dick. We’ve been friends for years, you and I. Just please put down that axe, all right?”

“Friends?” Dick said, as if he were trying to make sense of that word.

“Yes, Dick. We’re friends. I trust you and you trust me.”

Dick cocked his head like a confused animal and grunted. A low guttural sound that was completely unnerving. Filthy with mud and blood, dry leaves and sticks clinging to him, he looked like some primeval savage.

“Dick? Do you understand?”

Dick Starling just stood there, darkness filling his eyes and looking like it wanted to spill out like tears. His mouth was hooked in a contorted grin and he was breathing very fast, his chest rising and falling. He looked from Macy to Louis, couldn’t seem to make up his mind what he wanted to do.

But he was thinking.

You could almost hear the primitive machinery of his mind whirring. And Louis was pretty much thinking that it was a very simple mind that Dick Starling now possessed. Gone were all the things that had made Dick, Dick. Whatever powered that brain, it cared not about the NFL or swimsuit calendars or basketball pools or sports betting. It had lost interest in the ’66 Camaro kept under the tarp in the garage, the one the old Dick babied, buffed and polished and tuned, taking it out only for vintage car shows. Things like that meant nothing to the new and improved Dick Starling. He didn’t even give a shit about his wife or his two daughters.

All of that had been replaced by much simpler imperatives…to hunt, to kill, to fuck, to eat. Maybe Earl Gould was right.

All of them out there…animals, they are regressing to animals, throwing off the yoke of intelligence and civilization, returning to the jungle and survival of the fittest…

“Dick,” Louis said, his voice very calm even though his heart was trying to pound a hole through his chest. “Dick…listen to me. It’s important that you hear what I say.”

But Dick didn’t seem to think that was important at all.

What was important here, friends and neighbors, was getting this fine piece of teenage snatch and raping it, then maybe slitting its throat, letting that hot blood pour into your mouth because that was the world’s oldest orgasm, the smell and taste and feel of the blood. Only tightass Louis Shears didn’t seem to know that because…well, because, he was still hung up on outdated, trifling things like morals and ethics and civilization.

“Louis,” Dick finally said and it looked like it took some real effort just to be coherent. He shook his head, licked his lips. “Louis, goddammit, don’t go fucking up things. I’m taking that bitch and you can either join in or I’ll go right through you. How’s that sound, old pal?”

Louis was scared.

Hell, yes. Like watching your best friend change into a werewolf right in front of you. Because, honestly, the change was that complete, that total. Dick was a slavering, shaggy monster, hungry for conquest and meat. Everything that civilization, his parents, and environment had taught him were acceptable behavior had been thrown right out the window. What was left, what was in control of him, was something much older, something atavistic and basic, something from the dawn of the race.

“Dick, you’re not touching the girl. I can’t let you touch the girl. I think inside you know that. Just try and think, Dick. Try and be rational, okay? You were always a good man and I think some of that goodness is still in you.”

“Fuck you, Louis.”

Louis stood his ground. “Don’t do it, Dick.”

Don’t be threatening, Louis warned himself. He’s just an animal. If you get territorial on him, he’ll have to fight you. He won’t have a choice. You push him into a corner, he’ll come out clawing.

Which was pretty good advice, but Louis figured Dick was locked hard in an aggression mode and he was going to attack either way. The thing was, though, that you couldn’t let him see fear and at the same time, you couldn’t appear too threatening. Dick had to be treated like a mad dog, nothing more.

“Where’s Nancy, Dick? Where’s your wife? Where are the girls?” Louis said, hoping this would be like a slap across the face.

“Nancy…Nancy’s dead. I killed her, Louis. She didn’t understand how it is. She fought against it. She didn’t see how…pure things are now. So I took this axe and I fixed that bitch.”

“Louis…” Macy said.

But he couldn’t risk taking his eyes off Dick for even a second. He was not a fighting man. He was not a violent sort. But down deep he was a man as any other and if it came down to it, he would fight to protect what was his. He would not sacrifice Macy to Dick Starling. He could not and would not let that happen.

“Get out of my way, Louis.”

“Can’t do that, Dick. You know I can’t.” He just shook his head. “C’mon, Dick. Think, try and think—”

“I don’t wanna think! I hate thinking!”

“—please, Dick, just try. Something’s happening in this town. Some kind of sickness has gotten people and it’s got you, too. It’s making you do bad things.”

“Yeah, you’re right, Louis,” he said, “and I’ve never, ever felt so alive before.”

Enough conversation and they both knew it.

Louis would have had an easier time convincing an ironing board it was a doorstop than changing Dick Starling’s mind. Louis steeled himself and Dick attacked. He made another coarse grunting sound in his throat and swung the axe with everything he had, two-handed. Louis ducked past it and the blade struck the refrigerator with a clanging sound, denting the front right in and leaving a six-inch gash. Macy screamed and Louis shouted and Dick snarled, bringing the axe back around. The blade missed Louis’ chest by a scant two or three inches. But the backward swing through Dick off balance and Louis went right at him, grabbing the axe handle in both hands and fighting with everything he had for it. Under ordinary circumstances, it might have been a dead heat. Louis was taller than Dick, but Dick outweighed him by thirty pounds.

But there was nothing ordinary about this situation: Dick Starling was an animal filled with animal fury.

Louis threw everything he had into it, trying to throw Dick off balance, but Dick wasn’t having it. When he couldn’t wrench the axe free from Louis’ grip, he kicked and stomped and then put all his maniacal strength into it. And, dear God, what they said about crazy people being strong was true. Louis held onto the handle and Dick still swung it, swung it and Louis through the air, slamming him down on top of the table. Dick was just mad. His eyes were wide and shining, drool foaming from his lips, a stink of blood and bad meat coming off of him in rank waves.

“I’ll kill you, Louis!” he muttered with almost a growling sound. “I’ll fucking kill you, kill you, kill you…”

Louis hung on, giving Dick a few good kicks to the legs that did nothing but infuriate him. He kept lifting Louis up and slamming him back down again and again and Louis knew, just knew, there was no goddamn way he was winning this one. Dick would tire him out, kill him, and then…and then…

And that’s when Macy stepped up behind Dick and struck him with an empty wine bottle. The impact was heavy. It made a hollow, thudding sound and it stopped Dick. He looked more confused than anything. Then Macy swung it with everything she had and it smashed right over his head in a spray of green glass.

He folded up instantly.

Dazed and disoriented, he tried to crawl across the floor at Macy, groaning and spitting. Louis jumped off the table and kicked him in the side of the head with everything he had. Dick went out cold.

“Thanks, honey,” Louis panted, trying to catch his breath.

“He isn’t dead, is he?” she asked.

Then Dick moaned. Nope, not dead at all.

“We better do something with him,” she said.

Louis smiled at her. Little Macy was no cringing wallflower, not when she got her ire up. There were plenty of teenage girls who would have screamed and ran, but not this girl. If you had to be trapped in a nightmare like this, then Macy was the girl to be trapped with.

Louis reached down and grabbed Dick’s ankles. “Open the door,” he said.

Macy opened the back door and Louis dragged him from the kitchen, grunting and puffing. It was no easy bit. Maybe it looked easy on TV, but in reality dragging a full-grown man around was hard, sweaty work. And Dick was nothing but dead weight.

Louis got him to the steps and let him roll down. He heard Dick’s head bang off the steps, but he didn’t feel a single twinge of guilt over it. With Macy’s help, he dragged him through the grass to the garage. It was no easy trick getting him through the door, but they did it.

“He’s going to thank us for this later,” Louis panted.

He took duct tape and taped Dick’s wrists together behind his back, using a lot of it. Even a madman couldn’t tear his way out. Then he took a length of chain and passed it around Dick’s taped wrists and wound it around a support beam that went from floor to rafters above. He slapped a Masterlock on the chain and that was that.

Macy stared down at Dick. “You heard what he said, Louis. About his wife. About Nancy.”

“I heard.”

Louis hoped it wasn’t true, but he figured it was.

Nancy, for godsake.

She was one of the nicest people you could hope to meet. When Michelle and he had moved into the neighborhood, she had been the first one at the door. She brought over a wicker basket with a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread in it. That’s the kind of person she was.

Outside, Louis tried Michelle’s number on her cell. Nothing.

“Maybe she’s still at work.”

Louis shrugged. “She should have been home an hour ago even if she worked late.”

But he dialed up Farm Bureau anyway. It couldn’t hurt. It was answered on the fourth ring and Louis brightened a bit. “Hello? Carol? Carol, is that you?”

Carol was Michelle’s boss. “Who’s this?”

“Louis. Louis Shears.”

“What do you want?”

Louis was not feeling so bright now. He could hear it in Carol’s voice: the madness. It didn’t have her all the way yet, but she was close. Just teetering on the brink of darkness.

“Is Michelle still there?”

“No, she’s not here. I’m here.”

“Carol, when did she leave?”

“Who cares? What do you want her for, anyway?” There was a smacking sound on the other end that might have been Carol licking her lips. “I’m here, Louis. Why don’t you come down. I’ll wait for you.”

Louis hung up. “C’mon, Macy, let’s get out of here.”

They ran to the car, but Louis already had the feeling that he was simply too late…

 

34

“I don’t want to go crazy again,” Macy said as they pulled away from the house. “I don’t want to feel like that again.”

Louis licked his lips, wondering if he should ask what he needed to ask. “Was it…was it very bad?”

Macy just stared straight ahead, but didn’t seem to be so much looking out as looking in. She nodded her head slightly. “It was horrible. It was kind of blurry before, but now I’m remembering more. I mean, I knew what I did, I could recall it all right, but I couldn’t make sense of it.”

“But now you can?”

She nodded. “Yes, I can. I never liked Chelsea…that’s the girl I attacked…I didn’t like her then and I don’t like her now. She’s just a preppy, stuck-up bitch. I know I shouldn’t say that, but that’s all she ever was. She treated me like dirt. Always had. I never did anything to her, I never smarted off to her…nothing. But she always hated me, always had it in for me. She’s just one of those people, right? Oh, look at me, look at how wonderful I am. I’m popular and special so that gives me the right to turn my nose up at everyone and be a snotty, uppity witch. So, yeah, I guess I hated her. I think most kids do, except for the idiots in her little posse and all the boys that drool over her.”

“And you think the way you felt about her, that had something to do with it?”

Macy wrapped her arms around herself. “Yeah, I think so. Something in me always hated her, you know?”

Louis nodded. “I know, believe me, I know. Kids like Chelsea are nothing new, Macy. They’ve always been around, always treating other kids like shit. There were plenty of them when I was in school, too. Most of ‘em need a good kick in the ass or a good slap across the face, but they never get it. The social elite. Most of ‘em have money and think they’re better than everyone else. That kind of nonsense starts at home and if the parents don’t jump all over it when they see it, it only gets worse and worse and then what you have is a monster on your hands.”

No, Louis did not have kids of his own, but plenty of his friends did and he saw it first hand. Spoiled, demanding, snotty brats that became impossible teenagers. Parents usually spoiled kids out of love, but that was the wrong kind of love. They weren’t doing them any favors by letting them think they were better than anyone else and that the whole world simply existed for their convenience. Louis didn’t know Chelsea Paris—thank God—but he’d known plenty of others like her. Kids so wrapped up in themselves and their own fleeting teenage food chain, spoiled and bossy and whiny, that when graduation came and they were thrust out into the real world, they were totally unprepared for it.

You were the most popular kid in school, eh? Prom queen? Cheerleader? Varsity quarterback? You knew all the right people and moved in all the right circles?

So what?

Once you stepped out of high school, the world at large did not care. It did not exist to assuage your ego or worship you or hand you things on basis of who you knew and who you blew. All that snotty, selfish, uppity behavior came back to bite you in the ass.

Show me a snobby little teen princess, Louis thought, and I’ll show you a girl in for real trouble, in for a very rude awakening.

“Well, that’s Chelsea, all right,” Macy said. “A monster from hell. Her and Shannon Kittery and all the rest.”

“Kittery, eh? Her mom must be Rosemary Kittery. I went to school with her. She married Ron Kittery. Back then she was just Rosemary Summers. Great to look at, but with all the personality of a rattlesnake. Cheerleader, prom queen, the works. A petite little blonde with a big set of…ah, well the boys liked her. Ron Kittery was a stoner in school. Just a total waste. Rosemary wouldn’t even acknowledge his existence. Then she got out of high school and found herself in the real world. Ron’s mom and dad had money, Rosemary’s old man—Shannon’s grandpa—was broke. He was president of First Federal, but they lived way beyond their means and he started embezzling. He was caught, of course. They hushed it up, but this is a small town and everyone knew. So what was little miss prom queen to do? She pursued Ron until he finally married her. And now she’s turned out a carbon copy of herself in Shannon, I see.”

Macy allowed herself to laugh. “Petite, blonde rattlesnake with big boobs? Yup, that’s Shannon the magnificent.”

They shared a chuckle over that and Louis was surprised, and not for the first time, how parents often managed to duplicate themselves, good or bad, in their children. It was actually kind of scary, when you came right down to it.

Macy was silent for awhile, then she said, “That’s what it was about, Louis. That’s what it was really about. I know that now. I’d hated Chelsea for years. And something inside me decided enough was enough. It rose up inside me, only I couldn’t stop it. We all have crazy thoughts, but we don’t act on ‘em, do we?”

Louis nodded. “So you think that this…whatever this craziness is…it just plays on something already inside you? Lifts inhibitions? Maybe frees the beast within?”

“Yes!” Macy said, sitting up and startling Louis. “That’s it! I always maybe wanted to punch her in the face or something, but I didn’t. I kept those thoughts in the back of my head where they belonged. But this…whatever it was…it brought them to the front and instead of being able to say, no, you can’t do that, I was like, well, why not? Why not give that little witch what she’s been begging for?”

It made sense, this thing freeing all the darkness and black thoughts of the people of Greenlawn. Inhibitions neutralized, social constraints eroded, morals and ethics ground to ash…nothing left to stand in the way of your darkest, most repressed and dangerous fantasies. And when you yanked away things like civilization and morality…what was left? Just the malign shadowy side of the human animal, the barbarity and bloodlust and savagery which is our inheritance. We were animals…hunting and killing and raping, smashing anything or anyone that got in our way.

It was sobering, very sobering.

But the same dilemma remained: what was the vector, the mechanism which had infected those people? And why had it gotten to Macy and then released her?

Maybe Earl Gould wasn’t far from the truth. Maybe he was, in fact, absolutely correct.

God help us, Louis, but we will exterminate ourselves! Beasts of the jungle! Killing, slaughtering, raping, pillaging! An unconscious genetic urge will unmake all we have made, gut civilization, and harvest the race like cattle as we are overwhelmed by primitive urges and race memory run wild!

Louis found that he was sweating.

He was terrified.

Was this how it ended? In a primal fall? A new Dark Ages of savagery that threw the human clock back 20,000 years if not fifty or a hundred?

Louis did not dare repeat any of Earl’s theories to Macy. It was enough that he knew. More than enough. Earl. Good God, Earl. After the run in with Dick Starling, Earl and Maureen had not been out in the yard when Macy and Louis got out there to the car. And honestly, Louis just didn’t have the heart to go looking for them.

Macy was just staring at her hands now as they drove. “The thing was, Louis, I…I didn’t feel in control, you know? Maybe those thoughts were in my mind like they’re in anyone, but it wasn’t like I made a…conscious decision to set them loose. It was like being in a car and somebody else was at the wheel.”

Louis swallowed. “Did you feel like you were being…I don’t know…compelled somehow or controlled, something like that?”

She shrugged. “I guess. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I couldn’t stop myself. It was like something else was in charge. I know that sounds stupid, the Devil made me do it or something, but that’s how it felt. And when it went away, I just burst out crying. I was scared, really scared. It felt like I was possessed or something, being taken over. It’s dumb, but that’s how it felt.”

Louis sighed. “It’s not dumb, Macy. But it is disturbing.”

And it was that, all right. It felt like I was possessed or something, being taken over. That was merely Macy’s subjective impression, of course, but if Earl was right, if he was right, then this possession was not some fantasy like diabolic influence or even mind control exactly, but something inherent in the human condition. Something ancient and absolutely evil.

“I guess I don’t care what happens as long as I don’t go nuts again,” Macy said.

“Maybe you’re immune now,” Louis said.

“What about you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know why it hasn’t gotten to me. But maybe if it hasn’t, it hasn’t gotten to a lot of others, too.”

Maybe. He just hoped he was immune. For wasn’t it possible that if this was a genetic impulse of sorts, an ancient imprinting, that it might have been bred out of certain segments of the race or that it might malfunction in certain individuals?

He hoped so.

For the idea of becoming some primal beast was frightening. The idea that he might get “infected,” might become something like Dick Starling.

Because if that happened…what might he do to Macy?

Louis shook it from his head, trying to tell himself that Earl Gould was nothing but a crazy old crackpot whose brain was soft from too much research, too many crazy old books.

But he didn’t believe it for a minute…

 

35

When Rosemary Kittery, the mother of Shannon Kittery—Macy’s old pal— tried to lock up K & G Apparel on Main that evening just after eight, three men came in and they had other ideas. She was hanging the CLOSED sign on the door and they burst right through it, nearly knocking her on her ass.

So much for subtlety.

Right away, Rosemary knew she’d made a godawful mistake by not just closing the doors at four or even five. Things were happening in town. Maybe you could, like Rosemary, tell yourself different, but the proof was in the pudding. The pudding in this case being two cops in dirty, ragged uniforms. Then a third whose uniform was unbuttoned, his bare chest and face painted up with what looked like blood. Like warpaint as if he were some fanatical Kiowa warrior preparing to die in battle.

Rosemary swallowed, doing her best not to scream outright.

“Evening,” said the older of the three. He had white hair and a crooked mouth, a perfectly lopsided mouth truth be told. “Sorry to barge in on you, Miss…”

“Kittery, Rosemary Kittery,” she said in a weak voice, not knowing what else she could say. But she knew she had to keep calm. Show no fear. These three were crazy, but she had to act like they were not. “Is…is there a problem?”

“She wants to know if there’s a problem,” the painted warrior said, a tall muscular fellow with blank eyes. “Don’t that beat all.”

The other cop, short and fat with a porcine face, just shook his head. “You see it all in this job.”

The white-haired cop ignored them. “I’m Sergeant Warren,” he said. “These two are Shaw and Kojozian. Don’t pay ‘em any mind. Last thing you want to do with a couple sick bastards like this is pay them the slightest attention. You do…well, look out.”

“Yeah, look out,” Shaw said.

Kojozian chuckled. “The Sarge is right, ma’am, you get me going and I’m a real barrel of fucking monkeys. I lose control, I like to start putting my hands on people, you know? Sometimes I touch ‘em in all the wrong places. I’m funny like that.”

“For chrissake,” Shaw said, “you’re gonna scare her. She don’t need to know about that. Don’t you pay him no mind, ma’am.”

Rosemary, a slight blonde woman pushing forty who still maintained her varsity cheerleader figure, blinked her big blue eyes a few times. “I won’t,” she said.

Dear Christ, look at their eyes.

Just look at their eyes.

Something was missing there and something else had taken its place.

“Both of you shut up,” Warren said. “We’re here on business. If anybody’s gonna paw up this broad it’ll be me.” He smiled at her. “No offense, ma’am.”

Okay, this was not good.

Rosemary had seen this one before, this Warren. Maybe in the paper or around town. He’d been a cop forever. At first she hadn’t recognized him. It was as if he’d undergone some subtle change…maybe his face was too long or too wide, his eyes too sunken. It was there, something was. Looking at him and the other two, she knew she had to play this cool, play it natural. Because there was no getting around the condition of their uniforms or the fact that they were stained with blood. A lot of blood. What she thought were freckles on Warren’s face were not freckles at all.

She smiled thinly, wanting very much to scream. “Well, you said you were here on business. How can I help you?”

“She wants to know how she can help us,” Kojozian said.

“Maybe you ought to show her,” Shaw said.

Warren sighed and lit a cigarette. “Why don’t the both of you pipe down? Thing is, ma’am, our uniforms are looking pretty bad. And we’re cops, you know? We have to keep the peace and Greenlawn don’t want its peace-keepers parading around in rags like this. We were eyeing up those trenchcoats in the window, the khaki ones. They look pretty smart.”

Rosemary just stood there, their eyes on her. They did not blink. They did not do anything other than burn holes right through her. “Well,” she finally said. “Why don’t you try them on?”

“Yeah, that’s what we were thinking,” Warren said.

Shaw and Kojozian knocked displays out of the way getting to the trenchcoats in the window and all Rosemary did was keep smiling. It seemed that her smile was painted on. She didn’t think she could have pulled her mouth out of it even if she wanted to.

The cops put on the trenchcoats right over their ragged uniforms. Warren’s fit him all right, but the other two were big men and they couldn’t begin to get them on. Kojozian tried damn hard, splitting open a few seams in the process.

“Look what you did!” Warren said.

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Rosemary said. “You need bigger sizes is all. I have a couple more in the back room. I’ll get them. Try on some hats while you wait.”

They bought it, seemed to be buying it.

“Do what the lady says,” Shaw told the other two. “Goddamn monkeys.”

She went into the back room at a leisurely pace, humming under her breath, taking the time to straighten a display of shoes as she went. She was good, she knew she was good. She’d been in the high school drama club and it certainly showed. In the back room, she moved around some boxes so it sounded like she was doing something. She could hear them muttering to themselves, admiring Warren’s trenchcoat. It was hot and muggy out there and they wanted trenchcoats. God.

Breathing hard, Rosemary slipped out to the loading dock and opened the back door. She could still hear them. They were arguing. While they were thus engaged, she slipped out the rear door, closing it quietly behind her. Oh, it was going to work, she was really going to escape and she knew it.

The heat of the day hit her as soon as she stepped out into the alley.

She jogged around the side of the loading dock and they were waiting for her.

Not the cops.

No, the children.

Maybe not children exactly, but teenagers.

Fifteen or twenty of them and they all looked like the cops…bloody, faces streaked with grime. She recognized more than a few of them from school, from parties Shannon had had. Holly Summer and Janet Weiss, Kalen Archambeau and Brittany Starling. Sure, the gang was all here. Tommy Sidel, Shannon’s boyfriend, was even there. All the girls from school. And Tommy. That was not only strange, but disturbing. But what was even worse was that they were all naked.

Completely naked.

Rosemary opened her mouth to say something, but she knew it was probably pointless. Their eyes were simply dead, their faces pale, their mouths grinning.

She tried to move past them and they tightened their circle, staring and staring. And those faces, dear God, just bleached of anything remotely human. A few of them were drooling and more than a few had dried blood smeared around their mouths as if they’d been chewing on raw meat.

“Please,” Rosemary said. “I need to get past.”

But they stood their ground.

Behind them was a huge pile of rubble. It was the remains of Hobson’s Shoes that had burned down the winter before and finally been demolished. The kids all had chunks of red brick in both hands. Good size pieces, broken and jagged.

“Tommy,” Rosemary said. “Let me go, okay? We’ll go home and see Shannon, all right?”

But he just shook his head. “No, you won The Lottery.”

“Yes, The Lottery,” another said.

And soon they were all chanting it with dead voices: “The Lottery, The Lottery, The Lottery, The Lottery…”

The Lottery? The Lottery? It didn’t make any sense, but then again, maybe it made all the sense in the world. They sure as hell weren’t talking about the state lottery drawing, Winfall or Megamillions, no this particular lottery was of a much darker variety and she damn well knew it. Because right then as they ringed her in and she saw the stark madness in their eyes and what they were holding in their hands, she knew. She knew. Because they were all around Shannon’s age and Shannon had been reading a story for school called “The Lottery.” Rosemary knew the story. She’d read it in school herself. And in that story, the person that won the lottery was—

“No!” she said to them. “You can’t do this! You can’t do what you’re thinking!”

“Yes, we can,” Tommy said.

“Please!” she cried, holding out her hands in supplication. “That’s just a story! It’s not real! You can’t do this! You can’t do something like this!”

Now they were grinning and raising the shards of brick in their hands. Behind her was a wall and before her, only the kids themselves. If she wanted out, she would have to go right through them. But it was too late, because it began. Rosemary ducked under the first few shards, but others struck her legs and chest. She cried out in pain and two more shards struck her head, putting her right down to her knees.

And then all the children came forward.

They threw more chunks of brick and with everything they had. Rosemary’s scalp was cut open, her flaxen hair going red with a blossom of blood. Another hit her nose hard enough to break it. Another knocked three teeth out of her mouth and still another peeled the flesh away from her cheekbone. And they kept coming, stones and rocks and missiles, knocking her senseless. Before she fell, a cruelly aimed hunk of brick caught her right in the left eye, smashing it to pulp right in the socket.

And through bloody vision she saw her daughter there amongst them.

Shannon stood there, grinning.

“WHAT IS THE LAW?” she said. “WHAT IS THE LAW?”

With a wet and tormented moaning coming from her lips, Rosemary pitched straight over and then the kids circled around her, pummeling her from above with more shards of brick until she stopped moving, until her legs kicked with weak spasms and blood ran from her shattered skull and punched-in face.

Laughing, the kids kept at it for some time…

 

36

Night was coming fast now and Mr. Chalmers, content now for perhaps the first time in his life with who and what he was, smelled it on the breeze. Dogs howled in the distance and he listened, judging from the sounds just how far away they were and if they presented any danger to his clan.

He was watching his hunters by the fire.

In what had once been his backyard, they were hard at work applying what he had taught them. Using the limbs of straight saplings, they were fashioning spears. After the limbs were peeled, the ends were split so the blade of a knife could be inserted and lashed into place. Now they were fire-hardening the points as he had also showed them. Chalmers himself had learned this technique in survival school while he was in the Army. And though much of his former life was now misty, indistinct, or absolutely incomprehensible, he remembered this.

Somewhere, a few streets away probably, there rose a chorus of blood-curdling screams. They came and went, rising and falling with a rhythmic cadence. These were not the screams of agony or fear, but of joy. The night was coming and the clans were getting excited for the barbarity and promise that only darkness could bring.

Chalmers had once been married. Many, many years ago. His wife had passed on and he had never remarried, remained childless to this day. But he had always wanted children, felt the paternal pangs for a brood of his own. And then, as he entered his sixth decade, the pangs for grandchildren.

Now he was satisfied.

Now he had children.

They were his hunters: a ragged, disparate group with naked, oiled bodies, dirty faces and grubby bodies painted up with earthen browns, electric blues, and blood reds. As he watched them by the fire, he saw that they had threaded and knotted beads, feathers, and tiny bones into their hair. With their naked, lithe bodies and the ritual painting, it made them look fierce.

There were a dozen of them. The youngest was six and the oldest was twelve.

Their parents had abandoned them—heeding the call of the wild that had been activated within them to run free—and Mr. Chalmers had brought them together into a cohesive whole. And tonight, he would lead them against the other clans.

Mr. Chalmers still wore his favorite khaki pants, though very dirty now, and boots, but he had torn off his shirt and took to wearing his dead wife’s fox coat that had been stored in mothballs in the spare bedroom. He had cut off the sleeves so that all could see the many tattoos sleeving his arms from his days in the Army. Although for many years he had kept them covered, grim reminders of his days in the Vietnam War when he led reconnaissance patrols and hunter/killer teams deep into enemy territory, he now revealed them. They were badges of honor, symbols of military blood rites, of combat and life-taking.

The children, his clan, respected him and knew he was their leader.

Those that dared question that, he had beaten. And one particularly arrogant fifteen-year old boy, he had murdered, slitting his throat using the same knife had carried during the war: a K-Bar fighting knife with a ten-inch carbon steel blade. He now wore the boy’s ears on a necklace around his throat along with his scalp.

The screams rose up again.

His clan jumped around the fire, imitating the sounds, bristling with excitement for the hunt that would begin soon, the raiding against other neighborhoods.

His blood running hot and sweet, Chalmers felt more like a man than he had since his days laying ambushes along the Ho Chi Minh Trail many years before. He had a plastic tube of eyeliner in his hands. Breaking it open with his K-Bar, he covered his fingertips in the black make-up. Carefully, just as he had in the war, he painted black tiger-striped bands across his face, darkening his chest and arms.

Tonight, after so long, he was returning to the jungle…

 

37

As they got closer to downtown, they stopped talking. Maybe the conversation hadn’t been much to begin with, but as they started getting a good look at the town and what was going on, it was like they had been gagged, rags shoved into their mouths and taped in place.

“It’s the whole town,” Macy said, not trying to hide the emotion that welled up in her now. It filled her, sank her down to new depths of despair. “It’s the whole town, Louis! The whole town has gone crazy!”

“Just take it easy,” he said, finding it extremely hard to take it easy himself.

But it was everywhere and it wasn’t just a matter of feeling something was wrong now, for you could see it: cars were smashed and left out in the middle of the street, houses were burning, garbage cans were overturned, windows smashed, naked corpses sprawled in yards. Like a tornado of destruction had passed through.

Something had snapped here.

Something had given way.

The whole damn town needed to be buckled down in a straight jacket. Louis watched it all and he was just beyond words to sum it up in his own mind. You’d pass through blocks of wreckage and madness, then, two or three streets over, things seemed perfectly ordinary. People were washing their cars and walking their dogs and cutting their grass. But he had a pretty good idea that those people were not sane either. There was no way they had not heard of what was going down around them, yet they went about their boring little chores like all was well with the world. The only thing that gave Louis hope were the neighborhoods where there were no people at all, nothing to suggest there was anyone around but a few curtains parted to see who was driving by.

“Why isn’t something being done?” Macy wanted to know. “They can’t…they can’t just let this happen. Where are the police?”

Louis was wondering the same thing himself. They should have been out in force, but he had yet to see a single patrol car. Though, in the distance, he was hearing sirens. Lots of sirens. He couldn’t be sure if they were police vehicles or ambulances or fire trucks, but there were a lot of them.

He’d only seen a small portion of the town now, but he suspected it was going on everywhere. If that was the case, there would be way more happening than the locals could handle. Even with the state and county boys chipping in, it would be way too much. They would need the National Guard or something. Maybe they were already on their way and maybe not. Because, realistically, whatever was turning people into maniacs and animals, it wouldn’t just be afflicting the civilians. Cops, too, would be mad as hatters.

Seeing it, unable to understand any of it, left him feeling confused and reeling. A chill went up his spine. It was just too much. A few crazy people was scary…but an entire town?

A country?

A world?

This is nothing, Louis, a voice coldly informed him. This is absolutely nothing. You just wait until tonight. It’ll be dark soon and then you’ll see some shit. Oh yes, you certainly will.

But he had no intention on being around by then.

Macy had had an episode herself, but it had been temporary. Was he hoping for too much in thinking that maybe it would only be temporary with the others, too? Was that even possible now? He didn’t and couldn’t know. But, the fact remained that he had not gone crazy. He had no wild urges or black thoughts. Absolutely nothing.

Not yet.

But if Earl Gould’s theories were true—and Louis was beginning to think they were—then it was only a matter of time.

Regardless, if he was still normal, there had to be others. Maybe those quiet neighborhoods were full of normal people. People that had decided to lock their doors and wait things out. But what happened when the crazies were the majority? What happened tonight when they took the town and started kicking in doors and diving through windows, slaughtering the last of the rational ones?

Louis felt more afraid than he’d ever been in his life.

He wanted to drive out of town before such a thing became impossible, but he couldn’t abandon Macy and he sure as hell could not just leave Michelle. And just where could he drive to? Another town filled with savages?

His hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his teeth chattering. He had to do something, say something. Macy was just beside herself.

“Listen to me, Macy,” he finally said, trying to sound cool and collected and probably failing miserably. “I need to get down town, I need to find Michelle. When we do, we’re going to find that uncle of yours. What’s his name?”

“Clyde,” she said. “Clyde Chenier.”

“Okay, we’ll track him down.”

“And if he’s nuts?”

“We’ll deal with that then.”

But she was not reassured in the least. She was a tough kid. Louis fully realized that now, if he hadn’t before. She was tough as nails. She was shaking in her seat, wanting to come apart, wanting to cry and scream and whimper, but she wasn’t. And she wasn’t because she was literally holding herself together.

“Macy,” he said to her, touching her hand. “I’m going to get you out of this, okay?”

She nodded.

“I don’t know what this is about, but we’ll figure it out.”

She turned and looked at him. “But it’s not just here, Louis. It’s everywhere.”

He turned on the radio. Very few stations were even on the air and those that were, were not broadcasting live. Just taped stuff.

The local station was WDND, Cozy 102. It was the butt of endless jokes by the locals. But it was the only one broadcasting out of Greenlawn. Macy punched up the AM band and found 102 quickly enough. Louis didn’t have it programmed in. An old school thrasher of the Black Sabbath/Deep Purple ilk, he just couldn’t handle that tirade of elevator music. Give him some Zeppelin or Nazareth, but go easy on Bobby Vinton and The Kingston Trio.

“Here it is,” Macy said, turning up the volume.

For a moment or two, there was only a building static that made them both tense up. Then the announcer came on, the same morbid-voiced guy who did the Daily Obituary Report at noon every day. He droned on in his usual monotone: “Well, that was ‘April in Paris’ by Count Basie and his Orchestra. And before that, we had ‘See Saw’ by the Moonglows. Boy, I remember that one like it was yesterday. Yes, it’s another lovely day in downtown Greenlawn. The sun is shining and the birds are singing and allll is right with world. Now don’t go away, we got more mellow sounds for a mellow evening…Bobby Darin and the immortal Patsy Cline singing, ‘Crazy.’

“You gotta love that. Craaazeeee. It really fits, don’t it? I don’t even know if anyone’s listening by this point. In case any of you are, there’s been no news out of continental Europe for six hours now. Same for Australia. In the Middle East, Tehran is burning. CNN reports that London is completely blacked-out. Satellite images confirm that the only light in London town is from burning buildings. God help us. And here at home…here at home, New York has fallen. There’s a firestorm sweeping through LA. Chicago is a warzone. Don’t know about anything else…internet is down now. Lost my AP feed an hour ago. I’m going to sign off now. Nothing left to say. Cozy 102 won’t be broadcasting tomorrow. There won’t be anyone left by then who even knows what a radio is. And, really, there won’t be a tomorrow, will there? Only darkness. Bonfires and stone knives by this time next week, animals hunting in the streets…most of them of the two-legged variety. Now comes the time of the primal fall…

“Behold, darkness will cover the earth…and night cover the nations of man…

“May God help us…”

Louis reached out and killed the radio.

Maybe the dead immensity of what was happening to the world did not hit him until that very moment. He heard Macy make a moaning sound next to him, but she was light years away. The realization of it all was like a storm of dust and debris and spinning shit inside his head. A sweat that was neither cold nor hot broke out on his face and his teeth locked together so hard that his molars ached. Everything canted this way, then that, and he knew he was going to pass out. Prickly heat swam up his belly to his chest.

That kid and those cops and the mailman and Macy’s mother hanging in the cellar and Dick Starling had only been appetizers. Just the beginning.

Louis was going to black out. God help him, but he was going to black out. He swung the wheel and hit the brakes, popping the curb. Then slowly, the world stopped spinning and he was just sitting there behind the wheel with Macy.

She looked at him and her eyes misted with tears.

“I’m okay,” he said. “I’m okay.”

But he wasn’t. A person with a tumor chewing a hole in their belly could say they were okay, too, but it didn’t make it so. Something had settled into this world and you didn’t need eyes to see it, you could feel whatever it was. It had settled into every stick of wood and every brick, every roofing tile and every leaf of every tree. It had consumed and polluted. And what it had done to the flesh and blood things of that town was hideous beyond imagining.

Louis sat there, hearing old Mr. Morbid on the radio, again and again: And, really, there won’t be a tomorrow, will there? Only darkness. Bonfires and stone knives by this time next week, animals hunting in the streets…most of them of the two-legged variety. Now comes the time of the primal fall…Behold, darkness will cover the earth…and night cover the nations of man…

Oh God in heaven, what was happening here and what would happen tonight when the shadows were thick as sin in the mind of an evil man and the moon rose high over the rooftops?

As he thought these things, he could see only Michelle.

Michelle with her big dark eyes that always seemed to look not just at him, but into him, and that sweep of chestnut hair that fell to her shoulders. He could see her when they’d met years ago and he could see her now, the way her dark beauty always made his knees weak and his heart seize up. He did not even know if she was still alive, some mindless kill-happy animal stalking the streets. He needed her, needed her like never before, because he knew very well then and there that she was his strength. It sounded corny and cliché, but it was true. He wasn’t much without her. He fed off her strength and confidence, that unflappable sense she had to always do the right thing, the practical thing. He needed her hand to hold, he needed her voice to hear, and not just because he loved her, but because he was almost certain that everything he had done and would now do were the wrong things.

Macy wiped her eyes. “You heard what he said. You heard what he said, Louis. It’s everywhere. There’s nowhere to run.”

“Yeah, I heard it all right. I heard it just fine.”

“I’m scared,” she admitted to him. “I mean, I’m really scared.”

“So am I…”

 

38

In the Shore household on Tessler Avenue, Aunt Una woke from her nap and felt the crushing loneliness of her eighty plus years well up and fall back over her, crushing her flat with its permanence. Its weight was a physical thing like a graveyard slab pressing her flat, holding her down and letting her feel the ages eating her away, withering her to dust.

Oh God, oh God…

She opened her eyes and realized that, yes, she was alone and had been alone for many, many years. Sure, there was her niece Phyllis and her husband Benny, the kids…but that seemed precious scant consolation. Because her life, her own life, had been empty and wanting for years and it was only now, in that thin confused veneer of waking, that she realized the truth of her empty, cast-aside life. She went through the motions and put on a smile and urged a laugh now and again from her bosom, but it was all false.

Synthetic.

What she had now was a yellowed photograph in a scrapbook, something cocooned in dirty silk. Her life was not real, just an insect carapace on a sidewalk, dry and flaking, waiting for a boot to crush it or a good wind to blow it into a gutter.

The reality of it was gone and had been for very long now.

Charles had passed some sixteen years ago now and her own children, Barbara and Lucy, were far away and rarely did they call and Una could not blame them. Why call a mummy at a museum? Why remind it of its slow dissolution in its glass case greasy with the fingerprints of the living things that watched it decay?

No, all of it was gone and she’d been pretending for far too long.

She sat up in bed, the minty odors of liniment and camphor rising up around her. She began to shake and gasp, clinging to the damp sheets beneath her. Oh dear Christ, what have I been doing? Why did I allow this to happen? Oh, you silly, deluded, crazy old hag! Forcing yourself into their lives, making Phyllis take you in when you had nowhere else to go! You’re nothing but a great sucking parasite that bleeds them of their life and vitality…don’t you see that? Oh, you should be out at the town cemetery, right next to Charles, going to earth and feeding the worms and making the grass sprout green under those big, wind-creaky elms! That’s what, that’s what!

At least you’d be accomplishing something!

Una, tears streaming down her face, age threading through her like cracks in the foundation of an ancient house, made herself stand. She did not know why she thought these things, but it was amazing she had never thought them before. The truth was a mirror that did not lie. Not about age or circumstance or exactly what you had become or let yourself become.

She stepped over to the window and saw Greenlawn laid out before her…the rooftops and spreading trees, flagpoles and church spires. Yes, all of it built and compacted into this space. It was designed for living things, not mummified old broomstick-limbed hags like her. She caught a reflection of herself in the glass and it was like a ghost hovering over the town itself. She could feel the creeping dryness of age, the dampness of the grave knitting her bones. And the horror of what she was and would never be again.

She stumbled over to the doorway.

She could smell things cooking downstairs, hear Phyllis humming and the kids chattering and laughing. Real, rich, living sounds. Those were not her sounds. Her sounds were rain on concrete vaults and autumn leaves blown over crypt doors, spiders spinning silent webs in night-black tombs, dead flowers and black soil and nitrous boxes held tight in the rotting belly of the good earth.

Una moved down the hallway to the stairs, standing there, feeling a silence within her that would never be disturbed by noise again. It was all she had, that coveting and enclosing silence, windy and longing and hollow. The sound of graveyards and empty places, listening churchyards.

Down the steps, then, one, two, three, four…

She could smell supper.

She’d always had a good appetite, but now that was gone. Skeletons were never hungry and scarecrows needed no bread. She could feel the aches and pains and stiffness of a life that had long since ceased to be productive.

She made it downstairs and suddenly, the children were quiet and Phyllis stopped humming. They were holding their breath, waiting, playing games on an old woman who had no more sunshine in her heart for games.

Una moved through the living room towards the kitchen. The smells from the kitchen were meaty and thick and spicy.

Still, no sounds.

No sounds at all.

She came into the kitchen, saw them sitting in the dining room beyond.

Phyllis. Stevie. Melody.

They were all naked of all things.

And bald.

They had shaven their heads. All of them were grinning, their chins shiny with grease. A strand of meat hung from Melody’s mouth and she sucked it in. On the table was what they were eating, what Phyliss had been cooking. What she had chopped and sliced, stewed and boiled and baked and the smell of it was sickening. And the sight of it…no, no, no, you old woman, you’ve lost your mind, you can’t be seeing this! You can’t be looking at this!

“Sit down, Auntie,” Phyllis said.

“And eat,” said Melody.

“It’s yummy,” said little Stevie, jabbing something pale on his plate with a fork.

Una shook her head from side to side as a scream loosed itself from her throat. What was left of Benny Shore was spread over the table. The provider of this household who was even now providing. His limbs had been roasted and his viscera stewed, his blood was a soup and his entrails stuffed with jelly. And there on the platter, surrounded by browned potatoes and carrots, garnished with dill, was his head, glazed like a ham, his screaming mouth stuffed with an apple.

“Sit…down,” Phyllis said, drool running from her mouth, her eyes glistening stones, staring with a fixed madness.

Una, screaming and mad, sat down.

Then the children were there, pressing themselves in, stuffing fat and pale meat into her mouth, pushing it down her throat with their greasy hands, filling her with the flesh and blood of their father while Phyllis held her. They emptied tureens and platters and serving dishes, dumping them all over Una, ladling soup over her head and shoving undercooked meat into her mouth until she could not breathe, not swallow, not do anything but fall from her seat, retching and retching, as they stood above her, grinning.

Then they fell on her with knives and teeth…

 

39

The boy’s meat was sweet and rich.

The thing that had once been known as Maddie Sinclair slept off her repast of boy, bloated, gassy, and satisfied. She snored. Her limbs trembled. Naked and crusted with dried blood, fat, and marrow, she lay in a corner of the cellar where she had scooped an earthen nest out of the dirt floor, filling it with dry leaves. A section of the boy’s entrails, half-gnawed, encircled her like garland. She lay there with her arms around her eldest daughter, Kylie, who nestled to her mother’s pendulant breasts as she had done as an infant. They slept on, bathed in their rising stench, happily as any animals fattened from the kill.

The air was smoky, ripe with an odor of meat, blood, and urine.

Maddie’s limbs shuddered as a dream ran through her simple mind. A primordial dream of the chase, the hunt, bringing down shaggy beasts with spears and arrows, bathing in the blood of immense carcasses.

She chattered her teeth, winced as gas rumbled from her backside, and went back to sleep.

The cellar was dim, moist, and smelled of black earth. Rather like a cave. It was this more than anything that had drawn Maddie here. Guided by untold ages of racial memory and primate instinct, she selected her lair as her ancestors had. The gutted remains of her husband were scattered across the floor along with some of his picked bones and drying flesh, garbage from several plastic bags. A wiry, muscular man, he had not been good eating. That’s why the trap was laid that snared in Matt Hack.

He had been most delicious.

A pit had been dug in the center of the floor and a low fire burned, smoke rising and filling the cellar with a dirty haze. The limbs of the boy, carefully dressed-out and salted, were hanging from the cobwebby beams above on ropes fashioned from his tendons and gut. Over the fire, suspended by a tripod was the boy’s stomach. It had been stuffed with organ meats and fat, sewn-up and now slowly smoked. His torso was dumped in the corner along with his head which had been broken open, brains scooped out.

Maddie’s youngest daughter, Elissa, was still awake.

She squatted by the boy’s head, running fingers along the inside of his skull, getting the last bits of buttery-soft gray matter that had been missed. Staring at what smoked over the fire with vacant eyes, she sucked her fingers clean. Like her sister, she was naked, streaked with grime and filth from head to toe, her flesh intricately cicatrized in patterns of welts and rising scars. Maddie was now similarly decorated. Elissa belched, ran dirty fingers through her fat-greased hair, dug a hole with her fingers and, squatting, shit into it. When she was done, she wiped her ass with a handful of leaves, then crouched down to sniff what she had produced. Satisfied, she buried it, flinging dirt over it like a cat.

Hopping on all fours, she crossed the room, intrigued by the smell of garbage on the floor. A heap of rotting vegetable matter stopped her. She sniffed it, chewed some, decided it was good. She rubbed herself with decomposing lettuce, pulpy tomatoes, bits of onion.

Then she went over to the nest.

Circling it three times, she wedged herself in next to her sister who reflexively encircled her with her arms. Then together the brood slept, dam and offspring, a knot of foul things, trembling with atavistic dreams, waiting for the night and the good hunting it would bring beneath the eye of the sacred moon…

 

40

Louis knew that the smart thing to do was to turn the car around and head right out of town. He was guessing there were only about a thousand voices in his head screaming for him to do this very thing…voices of instinct, survival, and self-continuation. But these voices knew nothing of love and devotion and duty. These were vague concepts to the voices, bigger and civilized things and they could not have cared less. All they cared about was living, was continuance, about saving the bacon of one Louis Shears who was preparing to jump right into the frying pan, fat side down.

So Louis ignored them.

He pulled over a little hill and entered Main Street from its far eastern edge, seeing all the familiar sights and familiar places that should have been calming, but now filled him with a mounting anxiety. He took it all in, trying to swallow and finding that he simply could not.

“We’ll…we’ll go over to Michelle’s work, see if she’s around. Then we’ll go over to the police station,” he told Macy and he thought it sounded pretty good, pretty reasonable considering the situation.

Macy was tense next to him. “Okay,” she said.

Unlike many towns where the main drag was perfectly linear or seemed that way, Main Street in Greenlawn was a winding, serpentine affair and you could never reach a point where you could see more than a block ahead or behind you. They passed blank storefronts and little cafes, gas stations and bowling alleys, hardware stores and banks. It all looked perfectly fine. All except for one thing.

“Where is everyone?” Macy said. “There should be people around on a Friday night.”

“Just take it easy, honey.”

“C’mon, Mr. She—Louis. Look around, there’s nothing. There’s not even somebody walking a frigging dog,” she said, alarm bells chiming just beneath her words. “It looks like a ghost town and it feels like one, too. Where are they?”

Louis tried to swallow.

She had a very good point, of course. They had seen life in other parts of town—along with a great deal of wreckage—but here it was simply dead. His window was unrolled and he no longer heard sirens or anything else, just the sound of the Dodge’s engine, its wheels rolling on the pavement, a slight breeze in the trees overhead. But not a damn thing else. It was like in the last five or ten minutes, somebody had thrown a switch, shut everything off.

“They must be inside,” he said.

“Why? Why would they be doing that?”

“I don’t know.”

“This is freaking me out.”

It was an almost comical statement considering things, but he did not laugh. Main Street was a graveyard by all intents and purposes. Not a thing moved or stirred. There wasn’t even a bird singing or a cat sunning itself on the sidewalk. Just a great, empty nothing. Yet, deep inside, Louis was certain that those houses and buildings were not empty, that there were people in them or things like people, things with eyes that watched the Dodge slowly roll past, waiting until it stopped, waiting until the man and girl got out and then, and then they would—

“There’s the Farm Bureau building,” Macy said.

Louis saw it, his heart thudding in his chest now.

It was on the corner, set back a bit with a parking lot out front. The building was red brick, kind of looked like one of those old school houses you’d see in the country sometimes. Even had a little belfry on top, but no bell. Louis remembered that it had been the post office when he was a kid, before they moved it to the end of Main. There were a couple cars parked in the lot, but none of them were Michelle’s. Still, he had to look.

He pulled the Dodge to a stop and just sat there, getting a feel for Main as it, he thought, got a feel for him, too. He could smell flowers and grass, the heat boiling from the blacktop. He was feeling those eyes again, watching. There were people nearby and he knew it. They were hiding behind locked doors, in closets and cellars, peering from behind curtains and Venetian blinds. Just watching. Like a group of people waiting to yell, “SURPRISE!” when birthday boy walked in.

Louis figured that’s not what they would say to him, though. It would be something unpleasant and dire…right before they slit his throat ear to ear.

“Well?” Macy said.

He stepped out and breathed in Main Street, felt it in his face. It was hot and still with a dark, sweet smell that he could not recognize, but knew did not belong. He listened for someone, anyone, even the sound of a car, but there was nothing but a flag flapping on the pole above Farm Bureau and wind chimes coming from an antique store down the way.

Oh, they’re here, all right, Louis. All of them. They’re playing the oldest game in the book. Maybe you remember it: hide-and-seek. They know where you are and if you get close enough, they’ll jump out and tag you. Maybe with their hands, but probably with their teeth.

He came around the side of the car, noticing with some unease that the shadows were starting to grow long. It would be dark soon. The wind was hissing through the treetops and along the roofs with the sound of someone exhaling. He walked across the parking lot, the fear building in him, unsettling him. It was growing, getting big and unmanageable. He had no reason to be afraid, yet he pulled the lockblade knife out of his pocket and knew that he would use it if he had to.

He found himself looking around Main Street like he was seeing it for the first time. The tight rows of buildings, the alleyways cut between, all the little cul-de-sacs and stairways and shadowy recesses, the overhanging roofs…all the places someone might conceivably be hiding. He was looking at these things the way a soldier might as he edged into enemy territory.

“Louis,” Macy said and her voice was heavy, breathless. “Look.”

She was at his side, but as he had been scoping out the threat factor, she was only looking at the Farm Bureau building ahead of them. She was pointing at the whitewashed doorway with its gleaming brass knob. There was something on the door. A smear of something dark which he knew instinctively was blood. There was more of it on the doorknob. A few flies were investigating it. Swallowing, Louis unsnapped his lockblade and reached out for the door.

It was unlocked and whispered in without so much as a creak.

He stepped inside, into the chill air conditioning which made goosebumps break out along his arms. Quiet. It was dead quiet in there, but he felt that it was not unoccupied. Somebody had been here. Somebody who had left a vague trace of something dark, something evil.

The receptionist’s desk was empty, as was the first office. Both were neat, undisturbed. There was more blood smeared along the walls and several handprints of varying sizes that must have belonged to several different people. Whatever had happened, it had been a group effort.

“I think we should leave,” Macy said.

“In a minute.”

The next office was Michelle’s and as he rounded the doorway, he thought his heart would explode in his chest it was beating so hard. Because he was expecting to see her in there, slit open and covered in flies.

But this room was empty, too.

Her papers were neatly organized, a few potted plants on the desk, pictures from their wedding and others from Cancun last year that made him want to weep openly. File cabinet, computer, coat rack, impressionist painting on the wall…but nothing to indicate violence or anything out of the ordinary.

But something had happened here.

And as he got out into the corridor, Macy so close behind him that she bumped into him every time he so much as paused, he was certain of it. Even without the bloody handprints on the walls, he could smell the badness here. This place was infected like a sore and you could smell the evil oozing from the walls in a stark miasma.

“Louis…”

“Just another minute,” he said.

Macy was right, of course. What they needed to do was get out of here before whoever or whatever that made those grisly prints returned. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Something was pulling him forward down that corridor and demanding that he look at what was waiting down there. Because there was an aura of menace here and he had to know what it was coming from, had to understand it and look it in the eye. At the end of the corridor there was another door, blood streaked all over it.

Louis could feel Macy tense up behind him.

He took hold of the door and threw it in. This was the office of Dave Winkowski, an adjuster. Louis stepped in there and the smell of blood was so strong he wanted to retch.

“Oh God,” Macy said, turning away.

A woman’s naked body was sprawled over the desk, drying blood splashed all over it. Louis knew who it was. It was Carol, the same woman he’d spoke to on the phone and not that long ago.

Her throat had been slit, blood splattered around everywhere. But worse, her skirt was pulled up around her waist and it looked like somebody had used a knife on her, flaying open her vulva and carving up her thighs with grisly abandon. It was not a crude hacking, but something almost surgical that had taken time.

Macy had only seen the body. Thank God she had not looked too close.

Louis grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down the corridor. “Let’s go.”

They left quite a bit faster than they’d come in. Out in the parking lot, the sun felt nice. The coolness of the insurance building left them and for a few minutes they just stood in the parking lot, at a loss for words.

“We better go,” Macy said.

“Yes.”

“I mean, somebody did that, Louis. Somebody who was insane. I don’t want to be here when they show.”

Louis followed her back to the car and just sat behind the wheel, not knowing what to do or what to say for the longest time. Most people went through their lives without having to find a corpse. But today, he had found two. Carol’s butchered body and Jillian, of course. As he sat there he found the words leaping into his mouth, the words he knew he would have to say to Macy sooner or later: sorry, kid, but your mother’s dead. She’s hanging in your basement. Tough luck. And they almost came out, but he swallowed them back down in the nick of time.

“What?” Macy said, picking up on it. “Were you going to say something?”

But he just shook his head. “No, nothing.”

“What now?”

He shook his head again. He pulled out his cellphone and called home in case Michelle was there. He let it ring until the machine kicked in. Then he broke the connection and tried again. Nothing. She wasn’t home. She wasn’t at work. Where in the hell was she?

“Who are you calling?” Macy asked.

“The police. This is fucking ridiculous.”

He dialed the station house and then dialed it again because he thought he’d punched in the wrong number. But there was no answer. That was not a good sign at all.

“Nothing?”

“No.”

“Try 911.”

Breathing deeply, Louis did. The number rang. There was a clicking on the other end. He could hear someone breathing over the line and it made gooseflesh swarm over his forearms.

“Is somebody there?” he said.

“Hey, looks like I got a live one,” a man’s voice said.

“Who is this?” Louis demanded.

“Who do you want it to be?”

Louis swallowed. His throat was dry as ash. “Listen to me. I’m calling from Greenlawn. We have an emergency here. We need help, okay.”

“Where are you?”

Louis almost told him, then he thought better of it.

“Where are you?” the voice wanted to know. “You tell me…I’ll send somebody to get you.”

Louis broke the connection. He was pale and sweating.

“There, too,” Macy said, fighting back a sob. “There’s no way out of this.”

“We’re going to the police station,” he said, trying to sound confident.

But even then he knew he was making an awful mistake…

 

41

The Huntress waited behind the dusty glass of a second hand store.

She watched the man and the girl get into the car.

There was something about the man she remembered, as if perhaps they’d been joined at one time. The more she watched him, the more she was certain of it. Just the sight of him made her blood run hot, made her heart beat in a delicious new rhythm. She licked her lips. She clutched the hunting knife in her hand very tightly.

The Huntress could no longer remember who she was.

She could no longer remember why she was.

It seemed that the way she’d been living these many hours was the way things had always been. Flooded with the primal memory and instinctive recall that had swallowed all that she was or ever had been with a simple plunge into the ancient black waters of prehistory, she was content. Content with the hunt, content with the kill. What more was there?

The car moved slowly up the street.

Hiding in the store, the others of her clan waited breathlessly. They wanted to hunt. They wanted to bring down prey with claws, teeth, and gleaming blades. She could smell the raw animal stink of them and it excited her. She led them because she was cunning. They were brutal, bloodthirsty, but almost idiotic in their simplicity. They understood only savagery, the law of the beast, kill or be killed, and they raided in such a fashion: with berserk, screaming mania. She, however, understood tactics, ambush, stealth. They were in awe of her.

One of them made a grunting, slobbering sound.

“Wait,” she told them. “Not just yet.”

She was tall and raven-haired, lean with rippling muscle, her eyes just as dark as the animal inheritance that misted her brain. Intrigued by the man, she trembled. Everything inside her—from heart to liver to lights—was pulsing, thrumming, anxious.

The Huntress had a vague recollection of the girl.

But that was unimportant.

She would have the man to satisfy her curiosity about him. And the girl? She would be killed or enslaved to amuse the sexual appetites of the clan…

 

42

Ray Hansel was alive.

He staggered down Main to where his patrol car was parked. The streets were silent now, deathly silent. There were bodies strewn about, the carcasses of dogs. Blood and entrails everywhere, a reeking fly-specked stew in the streets and spread over the walks. He was dazed and hurting and half out of his mind. As he walked—staggered, really—the sinking sun still hot on his neck, he tried to put it all together and make sense of something that was utterly senseless. He remembered the insane woman coming in, making for Bob Moreland’s office, how they overpowered her. Moreland said it was his wife and then, and then…

And then you heard the screaming, he reminded himself. The awful torturous screaming and you rushed downstairs right behind Moreland and every other cop that was up there. Remember? Remember how it looked? Men, women, children, and…dogs. Dozens and dozens of people and twice that many dogs.

He seized up right there on the walk, a dead man at his feet, sprawled over the concrete. He had died in battle with a Doberman. The Doberman’s jaws were locked on his throat, the knife in his hand still buried in the animal’s guts. They were both tangled in the dog’s viscera; it was knotted over them in fleshy ropes. Mangled and gutted, a surreal sculpture of human and canine locked in a fearsome and appalling death. Like two wax figures that had melted into one another. They both looked like they’d been dipped in red ink.

Choking on his own bile, Hansel moved past them, past the carnage spread everywhere.

All that blood, all those mutilated bodies.

He wanted to vomit, but there was absolutely nothing left in his stomach. His uniform was in rags. He was cut and bitten and scratched and generally banged-up. There was blood all over him, human blood and dog blood mixed in with his own.

He saw his patrol car and shuffled his way over, only stopping when he was a few feet away.

He looked around, his eyes glazed and his face scratched to the bone.

Are they all dead? Is the entire town dead now?

Logic told him it could not be, yet he’d never felt so terribly alone and terrible vulnerable. He wondered vaguely where his partner was. Where the hell was Paul Mackabee? Dead? Was he dead, too?

Standing there, he was wondering why the dogs had attacked.

Because at first, when they’d first flooded into the police station with that mob of wild-eyed people, they had attacked together, dogs and people. In unison. All shrieking and howling and foaming at the mouth. It had been a slaughter, an absolute slaughter. The cops overwhelmed and buried alive beneath people and dogs.

Those weren’t people, Ray, he told himself. You saw them…many of them were naked like animals, painted up like jungle savages, their hair wild and matted, their faces set, eyes shining with a moist blackness, just staring and staring. There was nothing human about that mob. Savages. Just savages out to rend and kill, bite and slash.

Same as the dogs that ran at their sides.

Yes, that’s how it had been. He remembered pulling his gun as Moreland and the others in front of him had gone down under claws and teeth and fingers and paws. He kept shooting until he’d emptied the clip. He’d brained two women with the butt of his pistol and then ran back upstairs, the pack howling at his heels. He’d been bitten and scratched and nearly taken down by a pair of bird dogs, but he’d escaped.

Barely.

What he remembered most, what he would always see, was not just the blood and bodies, the dogs and crazies dismembering people and biting into throats and tearing open bellies, not just that or the violent, repellent stink or the mist of red that settled over the squad room…no, what he would always remember was that people, human beings, had been running on all fours with the dogs, biting like them, tearing like them, bringing down their prey in packs just like them. And the scariest part was that he honestly couldn’t tell after a few moments which were the dogs and which were the people.

He saw only slaughtering, muscled, slashing red forms.

Dear God, dear God.

Hansel climbed into the cruiser and got on the emergency channel. He didn’t bother with call numbers or police codes. He simply said, “This…this is Trooper Hansel! Do you hear me? Trooper fucking Hansel! I’m in Greenlawn! I need back-up, I need troops! We’ve got bodies everywhere, civil unrest…move it, move it, move it!”

There was nothing but static for a moment or two, then: “Greenlawn! Come in, Greenlawn!”

Hansel brought the mic to his mouth, his hand shaking violently. “This is Greenlawn…do you hear me? This is Greenlawn!”

More static. Then a voice: “How’s the hunting over there?”

The mic fell from Hansel’ fingers.

They’ve all gone fucking mad. God help us, but they’ve all gone mad…

Then he did something that he had not done for six years since his wife passed: he pressed his hands to his face and he sobbed. He could not stop sobbing, his entire body trembling, the tears rolling hot down his cheeks. It all ran through his head, all the awfulness that he’d seen this day culminating with the slaughter at the police station. It all came pouring out of him and he could not stop, could not do anything but shake and sob until there was nothing left.

He was only alive because he’d gotten upstairs, gotten into a closet and stayed there. That’s when the dogs must have turned on the people or vise versa. He remembered them scratching at the door, the dogs and the people, and then the screaming and shouting and growling and snapping. They had hunted side by side until there was no more game, then they’d hunted each another.

They turned on one another.

The fighting and savagery had gone on for some time and then things had grown quiet incrementally. When he finally dared go down there—about fifteen minutes ago—there had been nothing but death. The squad room was a carpet of bodies, human and dog, and parts thereof, a red sea of filth. There were dozens of corpses locked in death throes with the dogs, dog teeth in human throats and human teeth in dog throats. He had not paused to examine any of it. He made his way outside and threw up on the steps of the police station.

And now here he was, crying like a baby.

Well, this wouldn’t do, this wouldn’t do at all.

He had to get a grip, he had to get a set on him and start acting like a cop. Goddamn Greenlawn was a fucking warzone and somebody had to start setting things right and that somebody just happened to be Ray goddamn Hansel. Just because you got kicked in the nuts didn’t mean you had to fold up and have a good cry, squat to piss the rest of your life.

No, sir, that wouldn’t do at all.

Some kind of ugly door had been thrown open on this world, all the dark and crawly things creeping out and having themselves a real old fashioned slash-and-burn hoo-ha, and it was going to take some serious ass-kicking professionals to slam that door shut.

Hansel knew that he had to get ready.

But…shit…it was spreading everywhere. He couldn’t fight alone, it just wasn’t possible. What in the hell could this possibly be about?

He started up the car and pulled away down Main, taking the first corner he saw and making for the south side. He’d grab the county road outside town and make for the highway, find people, normal people, start marshalling the fucking troops like Patton hitting the Rhine with the Third Army. Kick ass and take names, holy Jesus K. Christ.

As he drove down Providence Street, one of the main thoroughfares that ran from one end of town to the other, he saw wrecked cars, bodies in the streets, burned houses and abandoned city vehicles. He even saw a firetruck, doors hanging open, hoses unrolled and attached to a nearby fire hydrant, but not a soul around to work them.

This will be the biggest, ugliest clusterfuck this world has ever seen. Years from now, they’ll still be trying to figure this out.

If there’s anybody left to do the figuring, that is.

If the madness isn’t permanent.

If I live to see it.

If this whole goddamn country isn’t a slaughterhouse by then.

If…

If…

If…

If civilization could survive this fever, the whole goddamn country, the whole goddamn world, would be like ripe meat and the media were the buzzards that would pick it clean. The stain of this day and what was yet to come would never wash off for a hundred years.

He kept driving and then he slowed…slowed right down because something was not right. In his head…something was just not right. It felt like a swarm of black flies had been loosed in there, buzzing and crowding and filling his skull. He hit the brakes and skidded to a halt. He couldn’t seem to remember what he was doing or even who he was for a moment or two. It was like there was some devastating influence taking his mind, some invasion that was stripping away who and what he was.

He sat behind the wheel, his mouth hanging open and his eyes glazed.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and what he saw looking back at him made him want to scream. A stranger. A perverse caricature of himself…something lunatic and twisted.

It’s happening, a very tiny voice in his head informed him. It’s happening to you right now, Ray. This is what it feels like when the cellar door of your mind swings open and all the black, shuddery, forgotten things come loping out…

And that was what he thought.

But he did not think it or even understand the train of thought for long, because suddenly he was gone. There was something else and someone else and there was no more rational thought as such.

He threw the cruiser in park very calmly.

He took the shotgun from the rack and stepped out into the sunlight. He could feel its warmth, the dying day and its final gasp of hot breath.

From deep inside, a voice was shouting at him, but he did not listen.

He gasped. He drooled. He shook and sweated and his heart raced. A wetness spread at his crotch. There was a shotgun in his hands and he brought the barrel up to his mouth, fingers on the trigger.

Goddammit, Ray, don’t let this happen. Fight, fight.

He would not do that, he could not do that. Putting a gun in his mouth was against everything he was. Yes, fight, he must fight. So he strained his muscles, but they were soft and pliable like putty. He had no more control over them than he did his bladder. He fought, but it was hopeless. His hands brought the gun up and the barrel rose, leveling out and dropping until it was in his face. His mouth opened to receive it. A long, strangled moan came from somewhere deep inside him.

The barrel of that twelve-gauge pump slid into his mouth, cool and metallic and tasting of machine oil.

The barrel slid further into Hansel’s mouth until the business end brushed the back of his throat and he gagged. He was powerless, weak, empty. He was nothing. He did not exist. He was just doing what he’d always wanted to do, always needed to do on some subconscious level. He’d known other cops that had eaten the gun and he wondered if this is what it had been like for them in their final moments before they sprayed their brains over the ceiling. Did they feel like this? Overcome, crushed down, broken, violated?

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

It was his own will making him do this, yet it felt like someone else was in charge of him. Making him do things that were against everything he stood for.

His fingers started putting pressure on the trigger.

Then he just lost all strength. Whatever it was, faded and fell apart.

The gun slid out of his mouth and Hansel was overwhelmed with dry heaves. He fell, the riotgun clattering to the pavement. On his hands and knees, wringing wet now with sweat and piss, the smell of blood and dead animals thick on him, he began to sob.

Then a voice, “Hell you doing, Ray?”

He looked up. Paul Mackabee was standing there. His uniform blouse was torn, buttons missing. There was blood all over his hands, streaked across his face. His eyes were filled with shadows. And, worse, he had the bloody pelt of a dog slung over one shoulder.

“Paul…Jesus, Paul…the whole fucking town…”

Mackabee kneeled down by him. He stank like oily carcasses. “Sure, whole town, Ray. Whole fucking world. Quit fighting it. Just…relax…and let it happen…”

Hansel thought he was crazy, no better than the rest. But he was tired, drained dry from what he’d seen. There was no fight left. He closed his eyes and let the darkness well up inside him until it spilled out of his eyes in ribbons of night. When he opened them, Huckabee was still squatting there.

Hansel grinned at him. The bloody pelt over his shoulder exuded a rank odor. It smelled delicious…

 

43

Swinging his nightstick by its thong, Warren moved up the streets flanked by Shaw and Kojozian. He stepped over the naked corpse of a woman and past a couple of dogs feeding out of an overturned garbage can. Across the way, a car had crashed into a fire hydrant and water was flooding the streets. Kojozian went down on his hands and knees and lapped water from the gutter.

“What are you? Some kind of goddamn animal?” Warren said to him, pointing his nightstick at the big man.

Shaw folded his arms and shook his head. “You hear that, Kojozian? He wants to know if you’re some kind of animal.”

Warren thumped Shaw on the back of the head with his stick. “What are you? An echo? He heard what I said. You heard what I said, didn’t you?”

Kojozian nodded, his face glistening wet, his streaked warpaint running some. “I heard you. I was just getting a drink is all.”

“Well, don’t be lapping like a dog,” Warren warned him. “Remember, you’re a cop. You’re wearing the uniform. You want to drink from a puddle, cup your hands; don’t lap.”

“I was thirsty.”

“Sure, he was just thirsty,” Shaw said.

Warren stopped. “You see these hash marks here?” he said, pointing to his sergeant’s stripes on his filthy uniform shirt. “These are experience. These say I’m in charge. And when I say a cop doesn’t lap water like a dog you better believe I know my business.”

They walked on, oblivious to the destruction and mayhem around them.

Yes sir, this was Warren’s town. He was a cop and he kept the peace. When you wore the uniform for a living, people expected things from you. Warren was unconcerned that his uniform was untucked, stained with blood and dirt, he only cared that his badge was shiny and his hat was on. Regulations. If a man didn’t live by the regulations, he lived by nothing.

He walked on.

The sun was sinking towards the horizon. It had been a fine day, Warren thought. A productive day. He looked up into the sky, noticing that a great many birds were circling above the town now…gulls, crows, ravens. A buzzard was perched atop a mailbox across the street. A flap of something was hanging from its beak.

They came upon the fleshy white corpse of an obese man out in the flooded street. A few more inches and he’d float away. A terrier with a blood-red snout was gnawing on his arm, a thin woman in a skirt and nothing else was chewing on his throat. Both seemed unconcerned that they were being watched.

Warren tipped his hat to her. “Evening, ma’am.”

She hissed at him.

Just ahead they paused. There was the sound of screaming. Warren looked at the other two. “Sounds like somebody’s having a party. We better break it up.”

They jogged to the end of the street, came around a corner and saw something which stopped them dead. Warren tapped his stick against his leg. Shaw patted his round belly and pulled the survival knife out of his Sam Browne belt. Kojozian, bare-chested, painted and wild-looking, bunched his blood-stained hands into fists and raised his haunches. A State Police cruiser was pulled up at the curb across the street. Two uniformed officers that Warren thought looked kind of familiar were kneeling on the concrete. They had knives in their hands. Carefully, grunting and exerting themselves, they were peeling the scalps from two corpses, sawing away happily.

“Of all the things,” Warren said. “Cops, Poaching in our territory.”

A fuzzy half-memory swept through the archaic ruins of his mind. Those men. He felt he knew those men. He could see them…around a fire, yes. Cooking trout in a pan. Drinking beer. A fishing trip. Yes, Warren had been on a fishing trip with these men. Ray Hansel and Paul Mackabee. Trooper Hansel. Trooper Mackabee. They were old friends of Warren’s. Both old hands on the state force. Warren knew them well. Drank with them. Fished with them. Jesus, Ray and Paul—

Then it was gone. He didn’t know who they were and cared even less. Poachers. Goddamn poachers.

He sighed. “Sonsofbitches,” he said.

“You seeing this, Kojozian?” Shaw said. “You seeing what I’m seeing?”

The big man shook his head. “I’m seeing it, but I’m not believing it. I think somebody ought to go over there and remind those monkeys that this is our beat.”

“Well, why don’t you?” Warren said.

“You think I should?”

“I insist.”

“Yeah, I insist, too,” Shaw said. “Of all the things.”

Kojozian slid a length of chain from his belt. It gleamed in the dying light…except where it was stained with something dark. He walked right across the street, huge, long-limbed, almost ape-like in his stride. One of the state troopers looked up. He had a leather sash with human scalps sewed to it tied around his throat. When he saw Kojozian coming, he rose up, brandishing his bloody knife.

His eyes luminous with ferocity, he charged.

“This guy’s not real bright,” Warren said.

“No, he’s not bright at all,” Shaw agreed.

The trooper darted in, slashing at Kojozian as the big man swung the chain over his head. He slashed, he jabbed, he tried to get in to draw blood. Kojozian stood there, oblivious to it all. He baited the trooper in. Thinking he had an easy kill, the trooper jumped in for a killing blow and Kojozian brought down the chain with all his muscle and weight behind it. The chain made a sharp whooshing sound and then made contact with the trooper’s head. His scalp was peeled from forehead to ear and he went down to one knee, shrieking. Kojozian brought it down again and split the crown of his head open.

The trooper shook and shuddered on the ground, but he was done.

Kojozian stood over him, bringing the chain down again and again until it was dyed red and tangled with hair and meat.

Meanwhile the other guy came after him.

“Hey, you better watch it,” Shaw called out.

But Kojozian was too intent on beating the other trooper into about two-hundred pounds of raw, red meat.

The trooper slashed with his knife and caught Kojozian across the ribs. He slashed his face, his arms, almost got his throat but Kojozian snapped the chain to his temple and down he went. Standing there, bleeding and dazed, Warren decided it was time to help him. He and Shaw went over there.

“You could’ve stepped in,” Kojozian said.

“I thought you could handle them,” Shaw said. “I guess I was wrong.”

Kojozian grimaced. “I don’t care for your tone.”

“Easy,” Warren told him.

“Fuck that,” Kojozian said and punched him right in the mouth. When he tried to get up, he punched him again.

Warren stepped between them with his stick. Good thing, too, because Shaw looked pretty mad. “Listen,” Warren said. “You guys wear the badge. Act like cops. Use your knives.”

They both pulled their blades and circled one another. Kojozian kept wiping blood from his eyes and Shaw tried to stay on his blind side. Kojozian jabbed and Shaw brought his knife around in a quick arc, laying his arm open. Kojozian let out a cry like an enraged bear and, trying to keep the blood from his eyes, slashed out wildly back and forth. Shaw sidestepped him, ducked down low, and jabbed him in the ribs.

“Nice,” Warren said, lighting a cigarette.

Kojozian was fighting sloppy now, just whirling around with his blade, slashing out blindly as he wiped blood from his eyes. Shaw played him, let him get in close, and then darted away. Kojozian leaped at him. Shaw jumped away, let the bigger man’s forward momentum carry him. Then as blood yet again filled Kojozian’s eyes, Shaw slipped behind him and buried his blade between his shoulders. Once. Then twice. Kojozian fell to one knee, crying out, and slashed Shaw on the elbow and Shaw stabbed him in the chest.

Kojozian dropped his knife…lumbering, trying to find his feet, but weak now from the pain and the blood which poured from him.

“Let me see that knife,” Warren said.

He took it from Shaw, went up behind Kojozian and slit his throat.

The big man went down, coughing out ribbons of blood, squirming in a red sea of his own making.

“Come on,” Warren said. “We have police work to do.”

They left Kojozian dying on the sidewalk…

 

44

Macy did not scream.

When they saw what had happened in the police station, she did not open her mouth and let the scream out that was no doubt building in her. Nothing so Hollywood or dramatic. She did not even bite down on her fist like some damsel in distress in an old movie. In fact, she did nothing. She stood there by Louis’ side, absorbing the atrocity before them. It was as if some insane war between dog and man had broken out and they were viewing the aftermath. But maybe it was even more than that. Like some great machine had sucked in dogs and men, filling the police station itself with meat and bloody mucilage that had overflowed those walls and spilled out onto the sidewalk.

Louis stood there with her, just sickened and shocked and appalled. A mutilated body or two at the scene of an accident was bad enough. You were offended, but at least you could wrap your brain around it. Two cars met, two cars were smashed, what was driving them was turned to pulp. But what about something like this? How did you view slaughter like this and what did viewing it do to you? The squad room of the police station was a horror, just the bodies of men and the carcasses of dogs all tangled together, split and rent and disemboweled. The floor a river of clotted waste like something that might be shoveled from a slaughter house pit.

Macy opened her mouth and said something perfectly unintelligible, but Louis understood. He understood just fine. Something in her, something good and necessary and human, had been laid bare and she was bleeding inside from a dozen cutting wounds. He took her by the hand and led her from that terrible place, the raw hot smell of death just nauseating.

It was just getting worse. Hour by hour.

And in his mind, he could not stop hearing Earl Gould’s voice: All of them out there…animals, they are regressing to animals, throwing off the yoke of intelligence and civilization, returning to the jungle and survival of the fittest…

God.

That explained the savage regression of human beings here and around the world…but what of these dogs? Dogs could be very savage, of course, their instinctive behavior was only kept at bay through breeding and discipline imposed by their owners…but what about these dogs? From what he was seeing, they had regressed, too, becoming less like domesticated dogs and more like wolves, savage blood-hungry wolves.

Did they have the gene, too? The dogs? Or was it not quite that simple? The regression of humans was more than just psychological, he was thinking. Maybe they didn’t sprout fangs or become hairy proto-humans like in the old movies, but the activation of that gene…well, it had to trigger biochemical changes in the human animal. And if the chemistry was different, more basic and animalistic, then obviously bodily secretions would be altered, too. Perhaps it was some chemical signature the dogs smelled, some odor that caused an aggressive response in them.

Louis supposed he’d never really know.

Outside, they stepped over bodies and dogs and that was when Louis went down on one knee and threw up. Oh, it had been coming for some time and when it arrived, it hit him hard like a good kick to the belly. Cold sweat popped out on his forehead and the world spun on its axis and down he went, his knee hitting the concrete hard and his hands slapping hard enough to make them sting. What was in his stomach came out in a warm, almost satisfying, gush as if he were voiding toxins or bad meat out of his system. He had no idea what he’d last eaten, but there it was, splashing onto the sidewalk.

Finally, the gagging stopped and blood finally made it back up into his head. “Macy,” he said. “Macy…”

She stood there, unmoved by what he had just done and what she was seeing all around her. Her eyes were wide and teary. They blinked. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed. Her hands were knotted into fists at her side. Her mouth hung open. But other than that, she was just gone. She’d seen too much, absorbed too much, and something in her had simply said, screw this, and shut down.

Louis reached out and grasped her left ankle. “Macy? Honey, are you all right?”

But she did not answer.

She was in shock or something, he figured.

He pulled himself up and put his hands on her shoulders. “Macy?” he said in a very soothing voice. “Listen to me now. I know this is bad, but you can’t let it get to you. You have to fight against it.”

But she was done fighting.

Louis took her hand in his own and it was chilly, moist and limp. She walked with him for maybe ten feet, then she moaned and folded right up. She fell against him and he caught her, which was a good thing because she might have split her head open on the sidewalk otherwise. She fell into him, loose and flaccid and he immediately gathered her up in his arms. She was a small girl, but he was amazed at how terribly light she was. He got her over to the grass, away from the splayed death all around them and gently set her down. She was breathing and her pulse was strong. Just shock. Just nerves. Just your average fainting spell and who more deserved one?

“It’s gonna be okay,” he told her. “It’s all gonna be okay.”

Although he did not like the idea of being out in the open and defenseless on Main Street, he knew there were things that had to be done. Things maybe he should have done hours before.

He pulled out his cellphone and dialed 911.

It rang and rang…but there was no answer.

No answer.

That meant emergency services were down and why the hell wouldn’t they be? He scooped Macy up and carried her over to the Dodge, wondering how it all looked from above. The bodies and the dogs and some crazy guy carrying a teenage girl in his arms. Jesus, like something off a paperback book cover or a movie poster. All that was lacking was some burning buildings behind him and some rolling plumes of smoke, maybe a couple smashed cars.

Leaning Macy against him, he opened the Dodge, then slid her into the seat. Her face was covered in a dew of sweat. Her eyelids flickered a few times, but she did not wake. He secured her with the seatbelt and shut the door…

 

45

The shadows were long.

It was almost time.

The Huntress was still waiting in the second hand store which was now growing wonderfully dark as the sun fell behind the trees leaving a smear of blood on the horizon. True nightfall would be in fifteen minutes.

The clan was growing impatient.

She made a grunting sound and they quieted.

Out in the street, the girl was in the car. The man was standing beside it, looking confused, looking troubled. The Huntress could smell his indecision, his weakness, blowing through the screen of the window. He was ripe for the taking. If they rushed out now, he might fight, but it would be half-hearted, without conviction.

She waited, sniffing the air.

She smelled green, growing things, the musky urine scent of the pack. She was catching a curious after odor of the girl in the car, too. The scent of her body wash, her sweat, the perfumed stink of her hair, and the ripeness between her legs that made the Huntress feel hungry.

The males of the clan smelled it, too.

Being who and what they were, they only wanted to follow it to its source. To take the offering of the girl, to break her and fill her with their seed. But the Huntress would not allow it and they knew so. They only wanted to run wild and free; she was teaching them discipline.

As the night air began to push steadily in, pure and sweet with night-blossoms, the Huntress felt her nipples harden. There was electricity in her blood, an expectant rhythm to her heart.

She watched the man.

In a few moments now…

 

46

Okay, Hero, what now? Louis asked himself. What you gonna do now? You gonna hang around this fucking graveyard in vain hope that the cavalry will ride in or are you gonna make like a sheep and get the flock out of here?

Standing there by the car, he was uncertain. Inside, a voice was telling him to run, to get out of town already, but it was not that simple and he knew it. Where were they? Where was everyone? Were they all dead? He could almost believe it, standing there on that deserted street, the shadows growing long, night coming, filling itself with a darkness that would soon fall over the town like a shroud. He could imagine them all, in their houses and garages and cars, just everywhere, all dead from something that was as inexplicable as the regression itself.

He looked around, seeing the bodies and the devastated police station. The buildings and storefronts of Main were just empty and dead like the entire population had been evacuated and somebody forgot to tell him about it. Everything was still, motionless and eerie. Like ground zero at an A-bomb test or a city in one of those post-apocalyptic movies.

Louis stood there, feeling the town around him, and was certain it was not empty. He could almost feel others out there as he had before. Hiding behind those storefronts, maybe waiting for dark like a bunch of ghouls. The idea of that made his flesh crawl.

Yes, he could drive out of town and leave this mess for someone else. But there was still Michelle. There was still his wife and he could not just abandon her. Maybe she was dead, but until he saw her corpse he couldn’t bring himself to believe that.

What then?

And then he knew. The most basic mechanism of survival was defense and all he had was the lockblade knife in his pocket. He needed something better. A gun. There were guns in the police station, but that would mean wading through those bodies, looting around through them and pulling a bloody gun from an equally bloody holster. The idea of that was repellent, but he didn’t really have a choice.

And then he saw, down the middle of the block, a State Police cruiser parked out front of Dick’s Sporting Goods. Cop cars always had shotguns in those racks. He would just borrow one, that’s all. He looked at Macy sleeping in the car. She’d be safe for a few minutes.

Louis turned and jogged down the sidewalk to the State Police cruiser. The windows were open, but there was no shotgun in a rack. In fact, there was no rack, just a lot of electronic stuff and a radar gun. So much for that. He turned to leave and then he caught something out of the corner of his eye. Something that made him freeze-up. Through the glass windows of Shelly’s Café, he could see forms.

People.

There were people in there.

People sitting in booths. They were not moving, just sitting. Louis felt sweat run down his spine. He made ready to bolt. Surely those people had seen him. Surely they would come after him…but they didn’t. He glanced quickly down the block at his car. It looked very far away. Swallowing, he went up to the café, being very careful. Those people sitting in there still paid him no mind. He went up to the door, peered through the plate glass. Yes, there were people in booths and people at the counter. Some at tables. Maybe a dozen at most. All unmoving, just sitting and sitting.

This is where you leave well enough alone, Louis.

Sure, he knew that. He knew that very well. So, ignoring that voice of reason and common sense, he pushed through the door and stepped inside. He could smell the coffee, the burgers, the deep-fat fryers. Hunger actually wormed in his belly for a split second, but it did not last. Because there was another smell: a stench of blood and shit, a death smell that made his belly curl in on itself.

The people were not moving.

Many had fallen over in their booths or right off their stools. Trembling, fighting back a scream, Louis moved amongst them, knowing he had to. They were mannequins and wax figures, sideshow dummies and straw-stuffed effigies. At least that’s what his mind was telling him. But the truth was much darker. They were not wax or wood or thermoformed plastic, they were flesh and blood and every last one was dead.

Their throats had been slit.

Yes, the fat man and his obese wife in the booth; the two grimy men in coveralls sitting behind them; the pretty woman in shorts and her cute red-headed daughter; the two guys and the state cop at the counter. All of them had their throats slit. There were a few other bodies on the floor, people that had fallen from their seats. Blood was pooled on the green tiles. It had coagulated on the counter. Run in rivers down the back of the brown plastic seats of the booths themselves where the fat man and his wife’s heads hung back. All those throats were laid open as was that of a waitress on the floor behind the counter and a fry cook slumped in the corner by a stainless steel cooler.

Jesus.

It was bad. Just morbid and loathsome and frightening. But what was even worse was that it looked like they had slit their own throats. Using steak knives and carving knives from the café’s own wares, they had slit their own throats and testament to that was the fact that most of them still gripped the knives in their bloody, stiff fists. Other knives had fallen to the floor. Even the little girl had opened her own throat…if the paring knife in her chubby, dead little fist was any indication.

It hit Louis like it had at the police station, the shock which was huge and physically heavy, overwhelming. He almost went down, but gripped the edge of the counter and clenched his teeth until it passed.

No, they hadn’t needed dogs or mad killers here, they’d done the work themselves just as Jillian had. Louis found himself wondering how it had gone down, how it had worked. Had it hit them all at once? The urge to destroy themselves? Was it some kind of unspoken, unconscious decision to avoid regression, to die while they were still human? The same thing, perhaps, that had gotten inside of Jillian?

He stared at the carnage and was almost certain of it.

He could almost see it in his mind, all these people in the café, in their own little world, separated from the raw stench of primeval degeneration that blew through the streets in a hot, rank animal smell. Whatever was human in them rising to the surface like a swimmer desperate for one last gulp of clean air before sinking into the primal waters of race memory. It must have clicked in all their heads at roughly the same time: a complete rejection of that infectious, ancient evil rising from within. The need to preserve something human while they still were human and not slavering beasts running naked, killing and fucking in the streets.

There really was no other explanation for it.

The waitress must have passed out the knives and then, in unison, they’d slit their throats. Some had made a clean, almost professional job of it, while others had been very messy, sawing through their throats not once, but two and three times, their necks hacked and gouged and carved. But they’d done it. They’d all done it.

Louis thought: Get out of here. The rest of it is bad enough, but this is infinitely worse and you goddamn well know it.

But he didn’t leave.

He couldn’t bring himself to.

There were horrors and then there were horrors and some of them simply demanded examination, regardless of how sickened and terrified you were. Maybe the human mind needed reasons, needed explanations. Maybe it could not look on this without out demanding to know: why? Maybe the human mind could not just turn away from something so senseless and gruesome without understanding the design of it. Louis leaned against the counter, his head thick with the stink of blood, hearing flies buzz and the clock tick up on the wall. It scared him. This whole thing scared him. And the very worst thing was that all those corpses were grinning. Their faces were pale, their throats and chests dyed red, and they were all grinning, just grinning the most hideous smiles imaginable.

And their eyes were wide open…

 

47

When Macy opened her eyes, her first sensory experience was not the plate of spiderwebbed glass that lay over her lap from the shattered window. It was the stink. The stink of those that had ringed in the car in the fading light. Monsters. That’s what she thought. Monsters. These were monsters…ogres, trolls, bogarts from a storybook that had slipped out of the dark and secret wood to feast on children by moonlight. She seemed to recall something like them from a storybook as a child, but maybe, just maybe, the memory was much older: atavistic recall. For the tales of ogres and trolls and child-eating witches were just ancient memories of primal horrors re-channeled into harmless fable. The truth behind them was dark indeed.

They just stood there, looking at her.

Men, women, children. A couple kids she knew from school.

They were yellow-skinned, dirty, half-naked, faces painted up like skulls, hair greased or tied-up with sticks and tiny bones like those of rodents.

A man standing in front of the car had a huge butcher knife in his hands that was almost as long as his forearm. He motioned with it. He made a low barking sound.

Then filthy, scabby hands were reaching into the car, taking hold of her and she just didn’t seem to have the strength to fight. Oh, she reflexively kicked and hit at them, but they yanked her through the window and bounced her head off the roof to take the fight out of her. She cried out, but it was a choked, pathetic sound.

They threw her to the ground.

She looked up at their deathmask faces carved with shadow. Their eyes were empty, shiny, vulpine. She opened her mouth to say something and they rained kicks down on her until she rolled into a heap, barely conscious. When her mouth did open to scream, something was stuffed in it: a foul-tasting, salty scrap. A piece of a shirt soaked with their sweat.

Louis, Louis, Louis…please help me…

Help me…

But he was nowhere to be seen. And as Macy fell trembling behind some black wall of terror in her mind, she felt hands grip her ankles, dragging her through the street…

 

48

Warren was standing there in the fading light with a cigarette in his mouth, ruminating on his life as a cop upholding the law, when the arrow punched into Shaw. Caught him right in the throat with a solid thunk! and punched out the other side, the arrow tip shining bright red, a hunk of meat caught on it. Shaw’s eyes glazed like a pot fired in a kiln and he pitched straight over.

Warren just stood there, watching him squirming on the ground. Shaw looked positively ridiculous with an arrow through his throat. Sighing, Warren ground out his cigarette and pulled his knife. “Guess we’ll be having company soon,” he told the writhing, bleeding man.

He was right.

In the fading light, he could not see much out there. Cars at the curb. Alleys. Trees. Houses. Hedges. Nets of shadow overlaying them all and making for a fine killing ground with himself as the prey. He started backing away from Shaw’s body. He turned this way. Then that. Yes, they were all around him. Goddamn. He could smell the urine and musk they were scented with, the wild animal stink of them.

A shadow moved behind a car.

The sound of padding bare feet from behind him.

He turned, ready to fight, heard a curious whooshing sound and another arrow caught him right in the belly. It didn’t go all the way through. The impact put him on his ass, knocked the wind from him. His knife clattered to the concrete. Then the pain came: sharp, cutting waves of it as what seemed oceans of blood welled from the entrance wound of the arrow. Sweating, straining, his heart pounding in his chest, Warren let out a strangled cry and pulled the arrow from his belly. Blood gushed from the hole. He felt dizzy, confused.

The bloody arrow in his hand had a triple-barbed, four-bladed tip on it, a broad head used for bear hunting. It fell from his fingers. He tried crawl down the sidewalk, but he just didn’t have anything left to crawl with.

Clutching his bleeding belly, he opened his eyes.

They had ringed him in: the hunters.

There were a dozen of them with clubs and broom handles sharpened to lethal points. They were all dirty and streaked with blood and paint. A high-breasted, green-eyed young woman with a bow in her hands stepped forward. She made a hissing sound and another woman stepped up. She was older than the first, but well-muscled, sleek, her face painted with red and green bands as was her naked body. Things like beads and sticks and tiny bones were braided in her hair. She had a slat of bone thrust through her nose and had peeled her lips away with a razor so her teeth and gums were on display. She carried an axe in one hand and a sharpened broomstick in the other with a human head, that of a teenage boy, impaled on the tip.

Warren blinked at her through his pain. He recognized her. They’d brought the body of the boy to her in the wheelbarrow. She had given the crowd an offering of the old woman upstairs.

She did not recognize him; her eyes were glassy, translucent.

She chattered her teeth and trembled with rage, her eyes simmering black with a vast, stupid hatred.

Warren did not look for mercy and he did not get any. The others waded in with clubs and began beating him until his bones were heard to snap, until his ribs were staved in, and his lower jaw was shattered. Knobs of bloody bone thrusting through his ripped uniform pants, he inched on the ground like a slug, moaning and groaning.

The woman with the bow came over. A hot stench of blood and decay wafted from her. She was menstruating. Blood all over her legs. It dripped from her. While the others held him, she crouched over him and rubbed her moist red vulva over his face, marking him with a crude cross of menstrual blood.

“Now,” she said.

Marked for the reaping.

The other woman handed over her broomstick with the head on it. She gripped her long-handled axe with both hands. With a manic, shrieking cry of delight, she swung the axe and decapitated Warren quite cleanly. His broken body lurched, shook. The eyes in his head blinked a few times and then glazed over with a stark finality.

One of the hunters took his head and impaled it on a broomstick.

He raised it up to the darkening sky and let go with a screeching blood-maddened war cry…

 

49

Louis kept expecting the dead people in the café to move.

He kept expecting them to wink at him or to call him by name, perhaps take hold of him in their cold, sticky red fists and show him exactly what had gone through their minds when they pressed that serrated steel to their throats, demand that he do the same.

For it was better than the alternative and he knew it.

There was a rustle of cloth and he spun around, his eyes wide and his mouth hooked in a terrible grimace. One of the men at the counter slid from his seat and fell to the floor. The little girl at the table fell forward, striking the plate before her face-first. The fat lady trembled and rolled out of the booth, coming down hard, her bloody knife clattering across the floor and stopping at Louis’ feet.

For one split second, he did nothing. His mind was filled with a roaring, whooshing sound and he was certain that they were coming alive around him, waking up. That they would look upon him with dead, yellowing eyes and reach out for him with blood-encrusted hands. And then everything in him went loose and he almost fell down, then tightened up stiff as a plank. A scream came out of his mouth, but it was dry and scratchy and barely more than a hissing sound.

The dead were just dead.

But the idea of three of them coincidentally moving, falling over or sliding out of their seats, was just too much and Louis could not accept it. His heart hammering and his breath coming very fast, he forced himself to move. To step over the body of the fallen man. He expected them to move again, to reach out or whisper his name, but they were just dead. And to prove this to himself, he went right over to the state cop—avoiding the reflection of his grinning, staring face in the mirror— and pulled the gun from his holster. It was a 9mm. And soon as Louis pulled it out, the cop’s corpse fell over like a tree.

Louis stepped around him, the gun in his hand.

Outside, he heard something that made him go white: the high, joyous peals of laughing children. Just for a moment, but it had been there. Something passed before the window of the café and Louis turned, bringing up the gun and pulling the trigger. But nothing happened. His hands shaking so badly that he almost dropped the gun, he found the safety and clicked it off.

He heard running feet.

He ran to the window, the gun out before him. Out there, the streets were empty. Completely empty. His entire body shook and his bladder felt very full. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it would blow out of his chest. He could see his Dodge from where he was, see it very well.

And the doors were wide open.

Behind him, something moved…

 

50

They had the girl now.

They dragged her into the shadows while the man was in the café. He never even saw them or suspected they were near. That’s how the clan knew that he was not a hunter, that he was soft and weak, his senses still deadened by who and what he was. Nothing but prey. They could have charged in and taken him but the Huntress did not want that. She would call them to the hunt. She would select the prey. She would find the meat and show them how to bring it down.

She was strange.

She was careful.

But she was also very cunning, very dangerous, and she killed without warning. The others let out a cry of anger when they struck, but not the Huntress. She smiled, exuded a scent of calm, then slashed your eyes, your throat.

The hunters stared down at the girl in the grass.

The men sniffed her. The women pulled at her hair.

She was theirs now…

 

51

Louis turned, his heart pounding mercilessly.

He turned and found himself staring down the barrel of a double-ought shotgun. The woman clutching it had crazy eyes, messy blond hair. She was dirty, bruised, her shirt was ripped open in the front and he could see most of her left breast quite plainly. But it was those eyes that held him: they were blank, almost unfocused like the eyes of a sleeper.

In a voice that was too calm, too easy, she said, “You just set that pistol on the countertop, mister, and I won’t blow your fucking head off.”

She spoke clearly. Her speech was not garbled or filled with snarling glottals like the regressed ones. He thought she was still human. Yet…her eyes were scary. They made him feel weak, vulnerable, everything inside him running like tepid water.

“Easy,” he said, setting the 9mm down carefully. “I’m not like them. I’m not an animal. I’m still human.”

“No shit? Well, excuse me, fuckhead, if I don’t exactly believe that.”

Louis realized then that she wasn’t crazy, just scared, confused, and more than a little desperate. She would kill if she had to. But he saw that she did not really want to.

He kept his hands in the air. “I’m human and you know it. If you doubted it, you would have shot me. Have you ever seen one of them with a gun?”

She sighed. “I guess not.”

“It’s the regression,” he told her. “A return to the jungle, to the original man, the original woman. They are like our ancestors. They hunt. They kill in packs. They reject anything of our world. I think it might almost be a phobia with them.”

“Listen,” she said, lowering the shotgun, “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. But I’m glad I found you. We might be the only two left. I’m Doris Bleer. You?”

“Louis Shears.” He crossed over to the window. Practically dark. “We don’t have time for this. There was a girl with me. In that car out there. I think she wandered off. I have to find her. She’s in shock.”

Doris shook her head. “She didn’t wander off, Louis. They took her. The crazy ones. I saw ‘em from the window in the back room where I was hiding.”

“Then I have to go after them,” he said, grabbing up the 9mm.

“Louis,” the woman said, looking very compassionate for the first time. “I’m sorry about your girl. But you’ll never see her again. Next time you do, she’ll either be dead or she’ll be one of them.”

“You’re fucking crazy,” he said, filled with emotional turmoil that turned within him like a steel screw.

“Wish I was. But I’m not. Neither are you.” She looked at him with those lost eyes. “They rushed in our house. They killed my husband. They…they cut him in two. They took my daughter. I escaped.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She shrugged, almost bulky beneath her defensive armor. Nothing could touch her. Not now. Not with what she’d seen. “An hour ago…before I hid out here…a pack of them chased me. My daughter was running with them. My own fucking daughter, Louis. She had a knife in each hand. She was hunting me. Do you understand? She was hunting her own mother!”

Louis bled for her, but there was only so much blood in him. Right now his blood was reserved for Macy and Michelle. “I’m going out. I’m going to get her back.”

Louis scrambled over to the door and something let out a sharp, piercing ring. His cellphone. He fumbled it from his pocket.

“Hello?” he said, his voice tinny and weak. “H-hello?”

There was breathing on the other end, deep and drawn-out.

“Who is this?” he said. “Who the fuck is this?”

There was a muted giggling on the other end and then a voice. “Hello, hello, hello.”

An echo.

Michelle.

But not Michelle.

This was an imitation of Michelle’s voice. Flat where it should have been bright; hollow where it should have been full; scraping where it should have been smooth and silky. Like a recording slowed down or sped up. A synthetic voice, a deranged voice. Some insane woman had borrowed Michelle’s voice and this was the blasphemy she was doing with it.

“Michelle?” he said. “Baby? Baby? Is that you?”

More breathing. The sound of a tongue licking lips. “Hello.”

“Michelle, please—”

The line went dead.

And Louis went dead with it…

 

52

They had her now and Macy knew it just as she knew that whatever came next, whatever unimaginable horror that might be, it would be the end of her. She was still gagged. She imagined she would always be. They had dragged her into a sporting goods store and threw her on the floor. Some of them left, but others stayed to guard her. A boy and girl who were probably grade school age, their eyes shining in the semi-darkness, and a woman who wore a red-checked hunting shirt, unbuttoned, naked beyond that.

They all had the same eyes…red-rimmed, almost translucent like those of wolves, just staring with a fixed blackness at their world.

The new world they would inherit.

A man came in, carrying a club with a nail driven in the end of it. He set it aside, and helped the kids drag Macy into the back room, some kind of storeroom behind the counter. She fought against them and they kicked her, hit her. She punched the girl in the face and the girl went berserk. She made a hissing sound like a mad dog and proceeded to slap the hell out of Macy, her arms windmilling, the slaps landing hard and hurting one after the other on Macy’s face until she stopped moving. The boy grabbed an arm and bit it. The girl did the same with her leg. Not just a nip like the boy, but biting down hard until Macy screamed behind her gag.

She could feel the blood running down her bare thigh.

The woman came in now. By the light of a nightlight—which they all seemed just absolutely fascinated by—she looked up into the woman’s face. It was shrunken like the face of a corpse, deep-cut by wrinkles that looked almost like scars. Gray hair hung in her face like moss. She bent down, sniffed Macy’s throat, then licked her cheek.

Her breath was like tombs.

Grunting in her throat, she rallied the two children who began to strip Macy under the watchful gaze of the man.

Good God, more than just savages, animals, but a family of them: mother, father, two children.

They tore off Macy’s shorts, her shirt, ripping them right off her. And when they wouldn’t come, they used their knives to cut them free, slicing her in the process. Naked now save for bra and panties, they rolled her face-down and tied her hands behind her back. She was trussed like a swine ready for the roasting pit.

She cried out, fighting against her bonds. The girl grabbed her hair and rolled her over. Macy tried to shout behind the gag. The girl slapped her again. Then something hot and wet, almost burning sprayed in her face: urine. The boy was standing there, pissing on her. The stink was rank, gagging. Not normal human urine at all…this was wild with a sharp-smelling musk to it.

Then, as the woman watched over her, the children joined the man.

She heard them wrestling with something, something heavy. They were grunting and puffing, making snarling sounds in their throats from time to time. She could hear the man straining. A pounding noise. Rap, rap, rap-rap-rap. Macy did not want to know what they were doing…but she craned her head and looked. Needing to see.

That scream again, held in check by the awful-tasting gag in her mouth.

By the glow of the nightlight and the fading illumination coming in from the street, she saw…oh dear God…she saw—

She saw a corpse hung by its feet.

She did not know who it was and it was really too dim by that point to see, but it was the corpse of a woman. Oh, how meticulous and wicked were they. They had nailed the feet right to a beam overhead. That was the pounding she heard. As the man hoisted the woman up, the children nailed her feet by standing on crates. Her arms were still swinging back and forth from it. It was the corpse of a middle-aged woman, heavy in the breast, bunched with fat at the belly and hips. There was a glistening scar across her abdomen probably from an old C-section. Her flesh was impossibly white, almost luminous in the nightlight that buzzed on and on. The crown of her head and hair were clotted with blood that looked black.

There was a shattering noise out in the store like a case had been broken into and the man came back. He threw something on the floor: knives. He’d been in a knife case. Dozens of hunting knifes, blades sliver and razor-sharp gleaming on the floor.

They were going to slaughter her like a steer.

Like autumn’s first kill—

Taking a handful of the dead woman’s hair, he yanked her head up and stabbed a hunting knife with a seven-inch blade right into her throat, sawing and sawing as blood splashed down his arms and over his chest. It sounded like the noise of sawing the lid off a Halloween pumpkin: meaty, muscled. He sawed, then jerked her head to the side with cracking motion, then pulled it right off and tossed it.

He went down on his knees and drank from the flow. The children fought their way in, drinking, slurping, sucking at the stump. The woman knocked them aside and lapped at the stream of blood, smacking her lips appreciatively.

The boy untied the gag and pulled it from Macy’s mouth. She dared not scream. He studied her face. He snapped at her with his teeth and giggled when she jerked in fear.

Then the girl cupped her hands, filling them with blood.

She crouched by Macy, careful not to spill the nectar.

“Here,” she said in a grating voice. “Here, here, here…”

She opened her hands and let the blood splatter over Macy’s mouth, rubbing her bloody hands all over her face and lips so that she got a good taste of it. “Good,” the girl said. “Good.”

Macy screamed, her face red and glistening. She thrashed and screamed, turned her head and vomited.

The man used his knife, cutting shanks of meat free from the dead woman’s thighs and belly. The family fed upon them, chewing and snapping and tearing, eating it raw and bloody like tigers in the jungle. Cutting free a slab of meat from between the woman’s leg, probably her vagina, he handed it to the woman. She sniffed it, licked it, then she stuffed it into her mouth whole, chewing it slowly. She kept taking it out, working it with her fingers, then stuffing it back in and chewing it some more.

And in Macy’s mind a voice was screaming: she’s not eating it! She’s not eating it at all…she’s tenderizing it, chewing it to a soft fleshy mush.

And that’s exactly what she was doing.

She went down on her hands and knees, breathing hard, her face glossy with blood, the thin juice of what she had been chewing upon smeared on her lips. She spit it into her hand along with a snotty tangle of saliva. She held it out, shaking it at Macy, grunting deep in her throat with an almost bleating sort of sound. The others went down on all fours with her.

Then together, like beasts of the field lowing in the grass, they crept in closer, blood-drenched ghouls with huge black eyes, their teeth white and shining, drool falling from their mouths.

They moved in closer…and closer.

Macy screamed because she knew.

While the children and the man took hold of her, the woman forced her jaws open. She stuck the handle of a knife in her mouth and pried them open. Then she brought the thing she had been chewing on closer, forcing it into Macy’s shrieking mouth…