Homefront: A Post-Apocalyptic Horror Survival Thriller
Date: 2020-08-08 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Post-Apocalyptic | Infected
Description: THE END OF THE WORLD COMES HOME. Emily Ristler is six weeks pregnant when the beginning of the end blows up her utopian dream. Moving out to a peaceful subdivision beyond the city limits should have put her beyond the reaches of life's insanity; a waterfront paradise to start a family. But with Cole caught in the heart of the city during a mysterious phenomenon that has devolved man into a primal predator with a single urge—Kill!—Emily must hold the home front until he returns. She's not alone, but there's no one she can really count on except herself. It's a good thing, then, that Emily is no
Publisher: Barnes & Noble Press
Rights: Copyright 2020 Sam Sisavath. All rights reserved.

Homefront

Fall of Man, Book 2

Sam Sisavath

Homefront

Copyright © 2020 by Sam Sisavath

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Road to Babylon Media LLC
www.roadtobabylon.com

Edited by Jennifer Jensen, Wendy Chan & Grace Kastens

Cover Art by Creative Paramita

Contents

The Fall of Man Series

Also by Sam Sisavath

About Homefront

Day 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Day 2

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Day 3

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

The Fall Continues…

The Fall of Man Series

The Break

Homefront

Firebase (Late 2020)

Also by Sam Sisavath

The Purge of Babylon Post-Apocalyptic Series

The Purge of Babylon: A Novel of Survival

The Gates of Byzantium

The Stones of Angkor

The Walls of Lemuria Collection (Keo Prequel)

The Fires of Atlantis

The Ashes of Pompeii

The Isles of Elysium

The Spears of Laconia

The Horns of Avalon

The Bones of Valhalla

Mason’s War (A Purge of Babylon Story)

The Road to Babylon Post-Apocalyptic Series

Glory Box

Bombtrack

Rooster

Devil’s Haircut

Black

The Distance

Hollow

Daybreak

The Ranch

100 Deep

The After The Purge: Vendetta Trilogy

Requiem

Tokens

Remains

The After The Purge: AKA John Smith Series

Mist City

Run or Fight

Shoot Last

The Allie Krycek Vigilante Series

Hunter/Prey

Saint/Sinner

Finders/Keepers

Savior/Corruptor

The Red Sky Conspiracy Series

Most Wanted

The Devil You Know

About Homefront

THE END OF THE WORLD COMES HOME.

Emily Ristler is six weeks pregnant when the beginning of the end blows up her utopian dream. Moving out to a peaceful subdivision beyond the city limits should have put her beyond the reaches of life’s insanity; a waterfront paradise to start a family.

But with Cole caught in the heart of the city during a mysterious phenomenon that has devolved man into a primal predator with a single urge—Kill!—Emily must hold the home front until he returns.

She’s not alone, but there’s no one she can really count on except herself. It’s a good thing, then, that Emily is no ordinary suburban housewife.

The world is spinning out of control, and Man has turned against one other.

Then things start getting really bad.

It’s kill or be killed, and Emily has everything to live for.

Day 1

Chapter 1

Waking up to the hammering was the worst part. The ear-splitting noise of power tools cutting and tearing apart Cole’s study to turn it into the baby’s room was a close second. She was already groggy and annoyed, and that was even before she got a look at herself in the mirror.

She didn’t have much of a baby bump yet, but it was on its way. Most of her neighbors didn’t even know she was “preggers,” as Cole put it, though Don Taylor next door might have suspected something was up. Being the nice guy he was, Don hadn’t put his suspicions into words.

Nice guy, that Don.

Heck, most of her neighbors were nice people. The neighborhood was a far cry from the world she used to inhabit, where “niceness” just meant they wanted something from you.

…Or were about to shoot you in the back.

“I woke up, and you were gone this morning,” she said into the phone. “Did you get any sleep yesterday?”

“A few hours,” he said through the iPhone’s speaker.

A lie. It was in his tone, in the slight hesitation between A to few to hours. Most people would never have picked up on it—most people couldn’t, and didn’t have the skills to—but she could. It was what she used to do for a living, after all.

“What did we say about not lying to each other?” she asked.

“Too big of a day,” he said. “But it’s over now, and I’ll be home soon.”

“Any regrets?”

Emily picked up the phone from the nightstand and left the master bedroom. She walked past Greg and Barnes, the two workers in the process of demolishing Cole’s office next door, and thought about taking a moment to enjoy the Bear Lake view from the balcony of the other bedroom at the back of the house. She decided she needed to get away from the noise and jogged down the stairs to the first floor instead.

“Just that you’re not here with me to enjoy it,” Cole was saying through the phone.

She smiled, knowing what a big deal this was even if he was trying to downplay it for her benefit. Cole had built the company from nothing, turned it into something people were willing to pay a lot of money for, and to give it all away now…

No, it hadn’t been an easy decision for him. But that was her Cole. When he set his mind on something, nothing could stand in his way. Business, war, or love. There was a time when she didn’t think she could love someone like him. Boy, was she wrong. She wondered if he ever thought the same about her; not that either one of them ever broached the subject. It wasn’t that it was raw, but, well, sensitive, especially given their respective histories.

“Work and home should always be separated, sweetheart,” Emily said. “Besides, I’ll be here to enjoy it with you. Was there a party?”

Emily turned into the back hallway on the first floor. The LED lights along the walls flicked on automatically as she passed them. The steel pneumatic door at the very end opened for her with a whisper-soft click, the motion sensors above it blinking temporarily red as she approached.

The door closed behind her—just as whisper-soft as when it’d opened—and took away the hammering and pounding and everything else Greg and Barnes were doing above her. She had no idea two men could produce so much noise pollution until they showed up two days ago and began terrorizing her from morning to evening.

“There was,” Cole was saying on the phone.

“A good party?”

“It went…well.”

“Just well, or pretty well?”

“Pretty well.”

She smiled. “I know it wasn’t easy…”

“It was.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

He didn’t hesitate, and answered, “No, it wasn’t.”

More bright lights flicked on around her as she walked through the spacious backroom. Thick walls meant that instead of the loud pounding of Greg and Barnes at work she could only hear slight thudding noises, but even that was almost blunted by the soft tap-tap of her bare feet across the plush carpeting. The room wasn’t soundproof by any means, but it was a nice refuge, a world apart from the rest of the house. The child growing inside her belly might not be fully formed at six weeks, but she swore even he (or she) was equally annoyed.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she said into the phone. “I know it wasn’t easy. You built that company from nothing, and to give it up now, just for me…”

She walked past shelves with boxes, the rarely-used pool table, and plastic crates filled with things Cole kept back here but that she had never bothered to look at. Her own things were all still bundled up in another storage closet.

“I’m not giving up anything,” Cole said. “I’m gaining more than I could ever have imagined.”

She plopped down on a loveseat in front of an old plasma TV hanging off brackets along the wall, then leaned back against the pillows with sham covers covered in floral embroidery. The TV was Cole’s, but the shams were hers. A reluctant compromise on his part—he thought sham pillows were “too girly” for his little man cave, and he was probably right.

“Be careful, mister. Talking like that will get you into my pants,” she said into the phone.

“Isn’t that how we got into trouble in the first place?”

Emily laughed. “Sounds about right. Where are you now?”

“Traffic. I’ll be home in a few hours.”

“Hurry home anyway. Even if you have to fly, get back here. I think this baby’s about to come out at any moment.”

“Listen to you, as if you were in your third trimester and not just six weeks preggers.”

“Yeah, well, tell this little monster that’s really cramping my style that. If he wasn’t the bundle of joy everyone keeps telling me he is, I would take it out on you for putting him inside me in the first place.”

“I seem to remember you had a say in that.”

“Meh. I was drunk on Pinot.”

“Excuses.”

“It’s a good excuse. That was one yummy Pinot.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, you’re a Chianti man.” She paused for a moment. “How did Roger take it?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine.”

Another lie. One of those white lies that she knew he couldn’t help himself because he thought it would make her feel better.

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

He might have sighed. “He took it fine, babe.”

“Still don’t believe you.”

“He doesn’t have any choice.” Then, without missing a beat, “You’ll be a wonderful mother.”

“You’re changing the subject,” she said, smiling.

“Am I?”

“Yes. But I’ll let it slide this time.”

She reached down and rubbed her belly. There wasn’t much there, yet, but that wouldn’t last. She’d probably need a whole new wardrobe soon. Emily wasn’t exactly looking forward to that. Her style, such as it was, had always been casual. This little “bundle of joy” was going to change everything, all right.

“Now, get home already,” she said into the phone. “I need you here with me, mister.”

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Nothing. I just need you here with me. Home. Where you belong.”

“ASAP.”

“You’re damn right, ASAP. Love you.”

“Love you more,” he said, and she pictured him trying not to make eye contact with his driver Donnie as he said those words. Donnie, who called everyone sir or ma’am, including her, whenever he picked Cole up in the mornings and dropped him off in the evenings.

Emily put the phone down on the chipped table. The furniture was another relic from their past, before the move to Bear Lake made everything official and very much real. Of course, the baby already made it real, but leaving a salary was, for her at least, the true confirmation that her life had moved onto a new phase.

She was a housewife now.

God, she was a housewife.

How did that happen? There were times she didn’t think days like this would ever happen. But they had. Not just for her, but Cole, too. They’d both made sacrifices to make it a reality. So many sacrifices…

I’m a housewife.

God help me, I’m officially a housewife now.

Emily settled into the loveseat. It was comfortable and cool with the air conditioning on. The HVAC ran pretty much nonstop because there were no windows back here. There was a very good reason Cole had locked himself in this backroom for the last week as he made preparations to sell the company. The blessed silence, while not total, was nonetheless a blessing.

She was spending more time back here, seeking solace from the construction out there. These days, she was tired a lot. She couldn’t imagine how much worse things were going to get as the weeks became months, and Cole’s offspring tried to kick his (or her) way out of her vagina.

Emily smiled.

Cole’s baby.

Two words she didn’t think she’d ever utter. When they’d first met guns and fists and blood had been involved. That was so long ago now, it seemed like another lifetime.

And maybe it was.

And maybe that was where it should stay.

Forever and ever, amen.

* * *

She had never fallen asleep in the middle of the afternoon before, but she was doing that a lot these days. She wanted to blame it on the baby, but it was probably the lack of activity. She just wasn’t as active as she used to be.

Emily woke up from the nap and yawned. It took her a few minutes to hunt down the remote—it was inside one of the table’s drawers. She turned on the TV, and as it powered up, went to the small fridge in the corner and fished out a bottle of protein drink. Red Bull crowded the shelves, and boxes of 5-Hour Energy took up space on top.

She absently channel surfed until she found one of the local news stations.

A man in his sixties with a shock of white hair, who had probably been reading headlines before she was born, was in mid-chat with his much younger female co-anchor. Something about an upcoming Renaissance festival. She had the sound muted but knew what they were talking about without the need for closed-captioning. She might have been retired, but Emily could still read lips as easily as most people breathed.

She stretched out on the sofa and sipped her bottle of protein milk while clicking through the channels. How many did they have? A hundred? Two hundred? Definitely in the three digits. Not that she was ever going to watch them all in this lifetime.

She kept the sound muted. It made everything more interesting anyway. The local channels were already midway through their afternoon broadcasts. Soon, the evening newscasts would begin. She flicked through sports channels, reality TV reruns, and the occasional original programming.

Something about a family of duck hunters, something else about what appeared to be swamp people, and there was an old woman who lived in a disgusting house all by herself. Hoarding-something. She spent twenty minutes watching the old lady hoarder, fascinated and disturbed at the same time.

Somehow, she ended back at the original channel. So maybe she didn’t have channels in the three digits after all. The distinguished anchorman was back, except this time there was something wrong with him.

No, not just him, but his much younger female co-anchor, too. They were staring at the camera. Just staring at the camera. Their faces were placid, emotionless.

Emily sat up straighter on the couch.

At first she thought the TV had frozen, but that wasn’t the case because the news ticker at the bottom was still moving—a car accident on one of the highways, oil prices were going up again, and a home fire in the northwest side of town—and there was a pen on the desk, and it was wobbling slightly.

Emily thumbed the volume button, but there was no sound. Or, at least, nothing to indicate people talking on-camera.

She clicked to another channel.

A rerun of Family Ties.

Click.

A home shopping network, the woman on the screen holding a cheap-looking necklace. She was frozen in place and staring at the camera the way the newscasters had been on the other channel. Her mouth was slightly open, as if she was caught in mid-sentence. A ticker ran underneath the screen, boasting about an amazing sale, though you had to call in within the next five minutes to get it.

Click.

Sports channel. Two men in suits stared at nothing as scores ran underneath them. Someone was moving in the background, and Emily glimpsed figures trying to get the two men’s attention. Voices. Urgent whispers. The anchors were oblivious.

Click.

A woman wearing too much makeup stood awkwardly in front of a green screen showing the weather, looking off the screen at someone in the background. She looked worried and seemed like she wanted to run off but couldn’t. Emily had seen terrified faces before, and this was one of them. More voices in the background. Multiple people talking at once.

Click.

A panoramic view of a stretch of highway, shot from the belly of a news chopper flying above it. A sea of chrome and metal and slow-moving figures filled up the screen on both sides of traffic. The entire highway had ceased to move as far as the helicopter’s fish-eye could capture. Small dots—people—filled up the frame, but many more hadn’t left their vehicles.

A reporter’s voice in the background, fighting to be heard over the whup-whup-whup of rotor blades: “—live look at what appears to be a major accident on the highway that stretches for miles. I can’t begin to tell you guys how this started or where. As far as I can tell from up here, it looks like the entire city has just shut down. No emergency vehicles yet, but it’s still very early. We can’t determine”—then, the offscreen voice rising noticeably—“Oh my God, what’s happening? Jack, can you get us closer? I think some kind of confrontation’s broken out on the highway!”

As the chopper got closer and the camera zoomed in, Emily watched people running around and colliding.

No, not colliding.

Fighting.

People were climbing out of their vehicles and slamming into each other. Others were fleeing on foot, attempting to distance themselves from the spontaneous mayhem, while more tried to drive off. Tried, because they couldn’t get very far with the traffic at a standstill from one side of the camera to the other.

“This is insane!” the reporter was saying, very close to shouting. “I’ve never seen anything like this. What’s happening? Jack, can we get closer? Jack, get us closer!”

The helicopter pilot was trying to do just that when Emily stood up and accidentally knocked the remote off the table. It landed on the floor on one of the buttons, and the channel changed again.

Click.

The sports channel again, except now the camera had been upended, revealing a grid of lights on the studio ceiling. She couldn’t see what was happening, but she could hear more voices than before.

And screams.

Pained screams in the background.

She snatched the remote from the floor.

Click.

The shopping channel, but the camera was capturing an empty room. The woman with too much makeup was gone, leaving behind a table covered in jewelry. There was something that almost looked like blood dripping along one side of the camera.

Click.

The local news channel with the older man and his much-younger female colleague, except instead of the two staring back at her, Emily could see the woman lying facedown on the desk while the man plunged a pen repeatedly into the back of her head. Blood arced through the air as people grabbed the distinguished anchor from behind and tried to pull him off. Tried, because the older man didn’t budge. Someone that old shouldn’t have been able to resist two twenty-somethings in the best shape of their lives, but he was.

How? How was he doing that?

And there was something pouring out of the older man’s eyes.

It looked like blood. But why was blood coming from the eyes? Was it the woman’s? Or someone else’s?

People didn’t bleed from their eyes.

Emily stood still, the remote in one hand, and stared at the TV.

There was almost nothing left of the young woman’s head, and during the struggle to stop the older anchor from stabbing her, her body had slipped off the desk and disappeared behind it. It was only then that the older man spun on the two much-younger men trying to pull him off.

Then he tossed one of the younger men off screen.

That’s not possible.

The distinguished anchor whirled on the remaining younger man and stabbed him in the neck with the pen. Someone screamed from off-camera, followed by the klaxon of a fire alarm blaring.

Click.

Chaos on the same stretch of highway.

Pure chaos.

The chopper had gotten lower, the camera zooming in as people murdered each other on the highway. A man was beating a woman with a tire iron, reducing her head to mush, while another one threw a little girl over the railing. Her small body flailed as it plummeted. Before the killer could do anything, someone else stabbed him in the back with a screwdriver.

“—my God, my God, are you seeing this? Are you guys in the studio seeing this?” The reporter’s voice, caught somewhere between hysteria and fear. “I don’t know what’s happening. It’s madness. People are killing each other. Oh my God, people are killing each other!”

The camera widened as the helicopter rocked slightly, taking in even more of the stretch of highway.

Cars were ramming into one another, into people. Someone was run over. Another one jumped onto a moving vehicle’s hood and began beating the windshield with a long metal object.

“—what is happening?” the reporter again, shouting in the background now. “Someone tell me. Can someone tell me? Guys? Guys? Are you seeing this? Jesus, someone tell me what’s going on out here!”

Emily wasn’t sure how long she stood and stared, part-fascinated and part-horrified by what was happening on the TV screen. It wasn’t that she’d never seen blood or death or murder before, but those things were in her past. They weren’t supposed to follow her to this new life.

She put her hand on her belly as the reporter screamed in the background: “—the police? Emergency personnel? Where is everyone? What’s happening out there? Can someone hear me? Is anyone even watching this back in the studio? Guys? Anyone? Anyone?”

Emily turned away from the TV and pressed the mute button and tossed the remote to the sofa. She snatched the iPhone off the table and redialed Cole’s number. She took a step back as the call connected, then rang on the other end.

Once. Twice.

“Cole, come on, baby, pick up.”

But he didn’t.

Three rings.

Four…

“Cole, come on.”

Five…

There was a click, before she heard Cole’s voice and recognized his recorded voice mail: “You’ve reached Cole. Leave a message.”

Quick and efficient, the way Cole did everything.

“Cole,” she said—or started to say—when the line cut off.

There was a long breeeeep signal, like some living mechanical organism trying to dig its way into her eardrums.

She pulled the phone away and stared at the screen.

There was no reception. She had gone from four full bars to zero.

“What the hell?”

Emily tried calling anyway.

But there was no signal. Either her phone had simply stopped working, or the cell towers were down.

How was it possible the cell towers were down?

She turned back to the TV and watched, wordlessly, as people killed each other on the screen. Cars were running over civilians, others ramming into parked vehicles. A couple had run into the railing and disappeared over the sides. There was an endless stream of people onscreen, colliding and fighting, and sprays of blood.

The reporter was shouting incoherently in the background. Or crying. Emily couldn’t tell which. Maybe both. Or mostly crying.

Then something metallic appeared in the camera’s viewfinder, growing bigger and bigger, just before it crashed into the camera.

A helicopter. Another helicopter had just collided with the first one.

The screen went static.

Then black.

Chapter 2

The cracks of gunshots she heard as soon as the backroom door clicked softly open was all the evidence she needed that what she had seen on TV was happening around her in the neighborhood, too. She had already concluded, with some certainty born from years of experience in the field, about how screwed up things were from the highway camera feed, but you could never be too sure when it came to TV. Governments could fake news footage the way college students pirated everything off the Internet these days: breathlessly easy.

But there was nothing fake about this. She had heard enough gunshots to know that these were very much real. Handguns, from the sounds of it, and close by. Way too close by for comfort. That shouldn’t have been possible in this new life. This safer life.

And yet she could hear them: the faint but sporadic pops! of gunfire.

What was that saying, about the more things changed, the more they stayed the same? That flashed through her mind as she walked briskly up the back hallway, past the stairs, and to the front door. She wasn’t running, but it was damn close. Emily tried calling Cole again but couldn’t get through. No wonder. She had no reception.

How was that even possible? Had every cell tower in the area gone down? What about the backups? The satellites? Phones in the modern era didn’t just go offline without a damn good reason. And she hadn’t seen one—

Or had she? Was what was happening on TV part of this? And what was this in the first place?

The steps. Remember the steps.

It was a mantra from her old profession that had served her well. Whenever she had any doubts, all she had to do was recite it, and her next move was clear. Or, if not completely clear, then clearer.

She did that now, reverting to the Emily of old.

Step one: Know your objective.

Step two: Gather intel.

Step three: Formulate a plan.

And finally, step four: Execute that plan.

Right now, her only objective was her safety and that of her unborn child. To do that, she had to secure the house. As she put the phone away and picked up her pace toward the front door, Emily unconsciously touched her belly.

Okay, little baby Cole, time to behave while momma gets us locked down until we find out what’s going on.

When she finally reached the door, Emily locked it, then pushed the deadbolt into place. She was surprised she didn’t feel all that much better even as the bolt slid home, but maybe because she was standing in her pants and shirt and nothing else, while the whole world seemed to be going crazy outside her walls.

A flash of activity out of the corner of her eye, coming from the window to her right.

Emily hurried over and looked out.

Don Taylor was in the street, raining blows on the mailman’s head with a gardening hoe. Don was her neighbor and unemployed, so the man spent most of his time gardening. She and Cole joked that Don spent most of his time in the front and backyard tending to flowers and weeding because it was a great excuse to get away from Nancy, his wife.

The weapon that kept flashing in the sunlight was no ordinary gardening tool. It was nearly 14 inches of stainless steel that ended in a sharp 4.5-inch blade that curved to one side like the point of a sword. It was a combination hoe and weeder, and looked ridiculously dangerous, especially in the hands of her forty-something unemployed neighbor.

“That’s more of a kusarigama than a gardening hoe,” Cole once said when he saw Don toiling away in his garden.

“A what?” she had said.

“Kusarigama. It’s something a ninja would use. But theirs has a sickle and chain for longer attacks. This one doesn’t.”

“Maybe he forgot the chain and lost the sickle,” Emily had said, and they’d both had a good chuckle over it.

She wasn’t laughing now as she watched Don obliterate the mailman’s head with the gardening tool/weapon.

There were no signs of Nancy, Don’s wife, and maybe that was for the best, because she didn’t have to see her husband striking his victim until there was nothing left but a puddle of broken bones and torn flesh and flowing blood.

Jesus Christ, Emily thought. He definitely used that hoe like a ninja weapon.

Then Don stood up and snapped his head left, then right, then left again—and saw her.

Uh oh.

Don made a beeline for her front door, blood flicking off the hoe’s sharp metal head as he ran. He wasn’t a big man and he wasn’t exactly the most athletic one, either. And yet, at that very moment, the unemployed CPA looked as if he could give Usain Bolt a run for his money in the 100 meters.

How the hell was Don running so fast?

Behind the fleeting form of Don, and across the street, someone burst out of a door and sped down the driveway.

It was Mrs. Landry. All 250 pounds of her. She was covered in blood, and so was the steak knife in her right hand.

At first, Emily thought the gray-haired retiree in the cotton one-piece nightgown—it wasn’t surprising to see Mrs. Landry in her nightgown throughout the day—was running away from something.

But no, she was running after something.

Namely, Don.

Except Don didn’t see her because he was too focused on Emily, standing in the window, gawking at him like a useless idiot.

Emily couldn’t help herself. None of this made any sense. None of it. Not even an iota of it.

What is happening out there?

She refocused on Don as he streaked across her front yard.

On his eyes.

They were bloody. Bloodshot. Just like the distinguished anchorman’s eyes on TV. Streaks of blood ran down his cheeks as he ran, still moving impossibly fast for someone who was not in the best shape of his life.

And, for that matter, so was Mrs. Landry. A woman that big shouldn’t have been able to cross her well-manicured lawn and cross the road that fast.

But they were.

Both of them.

How?

How was any of this possible?

How?

Don vanished past the window and out of Emily’s view.

A second later there was a loud bam! as Don crashed into the front door, flesh meeting unyielding hard wood.

Emily reflexively took a step back from the window and looked toward the door.

Bam!

She glanced around her, looking for a weapon. There were plenty in the kitchen, but the thought of taking her eyes off the door made her rethink that option.

Bam!

Instead, she snatched up one of Cole’s golf clubs from the bag leaning in the corner next to the door. He hadn’t touched the clubs in weeks, not since he agreed to sell the company—

Silence.

What now?

Don had stopped trying to break his way in. But it wasn’t completely silent. She could still hear screams and gunshots elsewhere in the neighborhood.

Gunshots. She hadn’t expected to hear that ever again—

Crash! as one of the window’s glass panes shattered behind her.

She jumped, the breaking glass pelting the carpet around her. Emily choked up on the golf club’s grip and rushed back to the window just as Don stuck one arm inside. She thought he was trying to grab her, but no, he was going for the lock so he could slide the window up.

“Don!” Emily shouted. “Stop it!”

He didn’t. Instead, his fingers found the lock—

She swung the golf club. Emily wasn’t a pro or even a decent amateur golfer. She didn’t know how to play the sport and didn’t care to learn. Neither did Cole, but he’d indulged because it was part of doing business. A week with Roger at the country club five miles from their house, and Cole had become a serviceable golfer. That was her Cole. He could adapt. He was always so good at that.

Emily wasn’t as serviceable as Cole and would never be, but she knew how to swing a weapon with purpose and skill. It could have been a golf club or a skillet, and she’d be able to use it as an instrument of destruction just as well.

Crack! as the metal head shattered the bones in Don’s forearm, exactly where she’d aimed.

She expected a cry of pain or at least some kind of acknowledging scream, but Don just jerked his hand back out the window. She prepared to strike again if he should attempt to go for the lock a second time, but Don took a step away from the window and glared at her.

If she didn’t know better, she would think the man was accusing her.

“Don, what the fuck are you doing?” Emily asked.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even seem capable of responding.

“Are you insane? Where’s Nancy?” she asked. “Where’s Nancy?”

There was a lot of blood on Don’s shirt and pants, and strips of fleshy things clung to various parts of the fabric. The mailman…and maybe pieces of someone else. Maybe even Nancy, who Emily couldn’t see anywhere out there.

“Don, what happened to you?”

He remained quiet, his nostrils flaring, the veins along the sides of his neck pulsating like worms squirming underneath the skin. The bloodied hoe was clutched in his right hand, but all she could focus on were the tendrils of blood dripping from his eyes.

Up close, she could see her neighbor’s chest heaving as his heart pumped out of control, too much blood being forced through his system. She could see the results: pounding adrenaline charging through his body, powering the forty-something into some kind of…

What?

Rage?

Craze?

What exactly was she seeing? And was this what had happened to the anchorman on TV? The sports guys? The commuters on the highways that were murdering each other? Images of the little girl being thrown off the elevated road flashed across her mind’s eye.

“What happened to you?” she asked. “What—”

A flash of white cotton as Mrs. Landry appeared behind Don and stabbed him in the back with her knife.

Don let out a loud roar—it sounded more animal than human—and spun around. Mrs. Landry was trying to push the knife in further when Don swung with his hoe. Mrs. Landry stumbled back, choking on blood while the gardening tool stuck out of her neck. Her eyes, like Don’s, were bloodshot.

Up close, Emily could see more blood on the older lady’s nightgown. Not hers, but someone else’s. A lot of someone else’s. Maybe her husband. Poor Henry was retired, just like his wife, and would have been home.

Don reached behind him and pulled the knife out of his back. Blood squirted free, not that he seemed to notice. The man dropped, straddling Mrs. Landry’s spasming mound of flesh on the ground, and began plunging the blade into her chest. Mrs. Landry gagged and bled, blood splattering the freshly cut grass of Emily’s front yard.

Jesus. Oh, Jesus. What am I looking at here?

A combination of morbid fascination and horror—maybe more of the former; or was it mostly the latter?—overcame Emily as she stood at the broken window and watched Don viciously stab the retiree over and over again.

Emily had seen death up close. She had caused some of them herself because it was part of her job. Part of the things she used to do for her country. In the years since, she’d regretted some of them, but not all. More often than not, it was them or her.

But for all that she’d seen and done, she’d never witnessed something like this.

This…was insane.

She’d never seen something like Don.

Or Mrs. Landry.

Or what she’d witnessed on TV earlier.

“She’s dead,” Emily wanted to tell Don. “You can stop now.”

As if he could hear her, Don finally stopped plunging the knife into Mrs. Landry’s unmoving form and glanced up. Something else had caught his attention.

Emily looked up, too, following the ex-CPA’s gaze.

The teenager Brody, from five doors down, was running up the street. He was fast, but not nearly as fast as Don had been earlier. Or Mrs. Landry, for that matter. Which shouldn’t have been even remotely possible because Brody was tall and gangly and handsome, if you were into teenage rebels, and he shouldn’t have looked as if he couldn’t outrun either Don or Mrs. Landry.

Brody had long hair that streamed behind him as he fled up the street, his face wild as he clutched his bleeding left arm. He didn’t have anything that looked like a weapon on him, and as he ran past her window, Emily couldn’t see blood coming out of his eyes.

She tried to scream out his name, to tell the kid to get out of the open, but Don had already taken off. He shot across her front yard and leaped over her fence and was on the sidewalk moments later.

Christ, he was fast. How was he moving so fast?

The kid must have heard or sensed Don, because he glanced back. Mortal terror froze on his face as he saw what was behind him.

“Faster, Brody, faster,” Emily said quietly. She didn’t bother to scream, because it wouldn’t have done any good. Even if Brody could hear her, nothing she said was going to make him run any faster than he already was.

And Don…

How was Don running so fast? That man shouldn’t have been able to move half as quickly as he was now.

But he was.

But he was…

“Forty-something going on sixty,” Cole had said about Don. The man was always so tired-looking. Always so haggard.

But not today.

Not today.

Emily looked down at Mrs. Landry’s body. She was covered in blood, a pool of it spreading out underneath her generous girth. Her eyes were still blood-red, the scleras a strange shade of deep red. Emily had never seen anything like that, and she’d been around; she’d seen more than most people would in a hundred lifetimes.

But this…

Mrs. Landry.

Don.

The stuff on TV.

It was new. This was all new, even for her.

And for the first time in a long time, Emily felt fear race up and down her spine, and all she could think was, Get home, Cole. Get home, sweetheart! I need you right now!

Chapter 3

Her house was in a subdivision called Arrow Bay Colony, one of three that surrounded Bear Lake in the middle. Arrow Bay was relatively brand new and flanked by a ten-foot wrought-iron fence, with a single gate that was also the only way in and out, by foot or car. It was a cozy and private, if slightly upscale, neighborhood. Boring, in so many ways.

Or it was supposed to be boring, anyway.

She took a step back from the window now, the curtains blowing against the breeze from the nearby lake. One of the advantages of living so close to the water was the constant cool weather. Though, at the moment, she wasn’t concentrating on how comfortable it was and instead on the fact Don, her neighbor, would have gotten into her house if she hadn’t stopped him. He had left a broken window behind, along with the bloody remains of Mrs. Landry, and was now chasing poor young Brody.

Emily wondered who was faster. The slightly out-of-shape ex-CPA or the teenager? Yesterday, she would have said Brody without even having to think about it. Today, after everything she’d seen, she wasn’t so sure anymore.

Instinctively, her mind reverted back to her old mantra.

Step one: Know your objective.

This one was simple: Protect herself and her unborn child.

Step two: Gather intel.

Another simple one: Everyone and everything outside the house was a potential threat.

Step three: Formulate a plan.

Stay inside the house while keeping everything and everyone outside it.

And finally, step four: Execute that plan.

This one was a little trickier…

She slipped the golf club into her belt behind her back as if it were a sword and hurried over to the bookcase. She grabbed the books and tossed them one by one—then three at a time—to the floor. The furniture was solid oak and heavy, and though it wouldn’t necessarily keep everything outside forever, it would take a hell of an effort to get past it.

Emily pushed the bookcase until it toppled, then grabbing one end, dragged it across the carpeted floor. It was slow going, but it went. She briefly cursed herself for not agreeing to tile the whole house when Cole had suggested it. That would have made this so much easier.

He’s definitely going to rub that one in.

She finally got the bookcase where she needed it and lifted it back up with a grunt, then pushed it against the window. The furniture was big enough to cover the whole thing, but that still left her with two other vulnerable windows. Where was she going to get two more bookcases for them?

Then there was the door. How was she going to ensure it stayed closed?

Maybe the sofa…

Pounding footsteps!

She took a quick step away from the window before glancing up at the ceiling. The noises had come from the second floor, directly above her. It’d sounded like someone was running.

Running fast.

Greg and Barnes, the contractors. They were ripping up Cole’s office the last time she saw them. She had forgotten all about the workers. What if they were like Don or Mrs. Landry?

Emily was pulling the golf club out from behind her back when Greg appeared along the stairs, racing down the steps. She hurried over as the man jumped the last few steps, gasping for breath as he touched down in a crouch and almost tipped over but somehow managed to right himself just before crashing into the wall.

Emily steeled herself, choked up on the golf club’s grip for the second time. She focused on Greg’s head—on his face as he looked right toward the back hallway, then left in her direction.

She zeroed in on his eyes.

Wide and blue, blood running down the left side of his head and down his cheek, before dripping from his jaw, but no bloodshot eyes.

Greg pushed off the wall and stumbled toward her.

“Don’t move!” she shouted.

Greg stopped and held up his hands, palms facing her. His left arm was loosely wrapped in a white rag that had begun to turn a pinkish red, and when he lifted it, blood dripped from his elbow.

Fear covered his face, but it was the lack of bloodshot eyes that she concentrated on. He looked scared—freaked out—but it wasn’t the same crazed look she’d seen on Don and Mrs. Landry’s faces.

Emily lowered the golf club slightly. Slightly. “What happened to you?”

“Barnes,” Greg said, shaking his head. The contractor was in his early thirties and muscular, but at the moment he looked young and frightened. And very, very confused. “He tried to kill me. Jesus, Barnes tried to kill me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. He—” Greg glanced quickly back up the stairs, before returning those frightened blue eyes to her. “He went crazy. I don’t know what happened. He just went crazy on me.”

That sounds familiar, Emily thought.

She lowered the golf club completely. “It’s happening everywhere.”

“What is?”

“I don’t know. People are going crazy outside.”

Greg ran past her and across the living room. He went to one of the windows that Emily hadn’t covered up and looked out into the streets. It would have been easy for Greg to spot the mailman—or what was left of him—as well as Mrs. Landry on the front lawn.

“What’s happening?” he asked, his words coming out in frantic gasps.

“Barnes tried to kill you?” Emily asked.

“What?”

“Barnes.”

“Barnes?”

“Barnes,” she said, trying not to shout but putting enough emphasis to get his attention. “He tried to kill you?”

Greg looked back at her, his face frenzied. “Yes.”

“And he’s still up there?”

Greg was nodding when they both heard the squeal of tires from outside.

Emily hurried to the same window and looked out just as a silver SUV appeared down the street, swerving dangerously as it took the turn too fast.

Arrow Bay Colony was shaped in an elongated “U”—or as Cole called it, a “bulbous penis”—with the waters of Bear Lake to the south, east, and west. The northern end connected the neighborhood to the other lake communities, then a road that led to the highway about ten miles away.

The road to the gate out of the subdivision was exactly where the SUV was headed at the moment. The car was moving too fast for Emily to get a good look at the driver, but whoever it was didn’t seem to be in control of the vehicle as it sideswiped a parked white van on the curb directly in front of her house and kept going.

“Shit,” Greg said.

“What?” Emily said.

“That’s my van.”

Emily thought about telling him that a hit-and-run was the least of his worries right now, but she concentrated on the SUV instead as it blasted past her front yard. The driver was a woman with wild blonde hair; she was clutching the steering wheel with both hands, mascara running down her face. Emily could see all of that because the driver-side window was down.

“Where is she going?” Greg asked.

“The gate,” Emily said, and thought, Which is where I should be headed right now, not stuck in here, helpless.

Her Audi was in the garage waiting for her. All she had to do was climb into it and follow the woman to the front gate.

So why was she still staying put? It had to be safer out there than it was in here, didn’t it?

She was still thinking that when something—someone—raced across the front yard of one of the houses up the street. Emily was too far away to see who the man was, but there was no missing the all-denim outfit he was wearing. As she watched, the man threw himself at the speeding vehicle with what could only be described as wild abandon and without any regard whatsoever for his own safety.

The figure somehow managed to hit the windshield—only to bounce off it like a human cannonball.

Well, that didn’t work.

The attempt didn’t stop the SUV, but the impact must have done enough to surprise the driver and made her jerk on the steering wheel, because the vehicle began swerving recklessly. The woman didn’t regain control fast enough, and the runaway car slammed headfirst into the side of a red Honda parked along the curb.

The SUV’s horns blared as the car idled, its front hood crumpled while smoke began shooting out from underneath. Emily couldn’t tell if the woman was badly hurt or not, but something had pressed the horn, and kept it pressed.

Another figure appeared out of a house from the left of the street and charged across the road. A man in a tweed jacket, something that looked like an ax clutched in one hand. Emily recognized him. George Benson, another one of her neighbors.

It was very obvious where George was going: the disabled vehicle.

She couldn’t see every detail of George from this distance, but what were the chances his eyes weren’t bloodshot? Or that there wasn’t a crazed look on his face?

“We have to help her!” Greg said as he began moving to the door.

Help her? Emily thought.

The idea of going out there had never occurred to her. Not only would they not reach the poor woman in time, but it would only set them up to be attacked by someone else.

Like Don.

Or someone just as crazed as him.

Right now, she couldn’t trust anything—or anyone—that wasn’t inside the house with her.

Emily just barely managed to grab Greg’s arm before it was out of reach. “Greg, wait.”

He stopped and turned. He was clearly shocked to see her hand on his arm, or maybe it was her strong grip. “Why? She needs our help! Did you see that guy with the ax?”

“Yes.”

“We have to help her!”

“It’s too late. We’d never get to her in time.”

“We have to try. She needs our help!”

“That guy with the ax isn’t the only one out there. There are others.”

“Others?”

She nodded. “People are going crazy, Greg. We don’t know how many have been affected. If we go out there, we’re risking our lives.”

She was surprised by her calmness. After all these years, after “retirement,” she could still summon the ability to compartmentalize and assess the risks without letting her emotions get in the way. Which was exactly what was happening to Greg right now.

But she couldn’t afford that. It wasn’t just her life on the line, but her child’s, too.

Step one: Know your objective.

Stay alive. That was her objective. That was her only objective right now.

Greg was so much bigger—he towered over her with his six-four frame and had at least 100 pounds of muscle on her—that she expected him to just rip his arm away. But he didn’t, and she knew he didn’t really want to go out there. She could see it in his eyes and on his face: Greg was afraid, not just because of what he had seen outside, but also because of what had happened with Barnes.

She took her hand away and forced her face to soften, to let the housewife resurface. “I’m pregnant, Greg. I need you to stay here and protect me. I know it sounds selfish, but I need you here.”

That did it. Her confession got the desired effect she was hoping for, and his face lost its wildness and his eyes dropped to her stomach in search of evidence.

“I’m just two and a half months in,” she said, deciding that was a better number than six weeks. “That’s what the room upstairs is for. The baby’s room.”

“Oh,” he said. She couldn’t tell if that was shock or relief in his voice. “You didn’t say anything about what it was being used for.”

“We didn’t think it was necessary to say.” Then, before she could lose him (if even a little bit), “Please don’t go out there, Greg. I need you here. In case this—whatever this is—gets worse. I don’t think I can survive this on my own. Me and my child.”

He nodded mutely at her.

Ah, who says chivalry is dead?

Greg looked toward the door as if he could see the SUV driver’s fate out there through the thick oak. She pictured gears spinning in his head, trying to justify why he shouldn’t go out there. That justification was what she had just provided him.

“What happened to Barnes?” Emily asked. “You said he tried to kill you?”

Greg nodded, looking toward the second-floor stairs. “I turned around, and he was there with the box cutter, and he cut me.” He seemed to suddenly remember his wounded left hand and cradled it. The blood had seeped all the way through, and the white rag was now almost completely red. “We fought and…I think I killed him.”

He frowned, clearly reliving the last few minutes.

“Come on,” she said, taking his arm and leading him through the living room.

“Where are we going?”

“Bathroom. I have a first-aid kit inside.”

“I think I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not. You’re going to bleed to death.”

“I feel fine.”

“Let’s be sure, okay?”

They were inside the back hallway when two more gunshots rang out, both from outside the house. As far as she could tell, both shots were well within the limits of Arrow Bay Colony.

They both stopped and turned back to the door.

“It’s a war zone out there,” Greg said.

No, she thought. I’ve been in war zones, Greg, and this isn’t it.

This is…something else.

Something much, much worse.

“Come on,” she said, tugging him along, “before you bleed to death.”

“What about the other woman?” Greg asked.

“We can’t help her now.”

“Did you know her?”

Emily hadn’t been sure before, but that was clearly Carol Miller in the SUV. She’d had difficulty placing the face because she’d never seen the housewife so scared out of her mind before.

But she didn’t want Greg to know that she had just kept him from attempting to rescue someone she knew by name, so Emily said, “No, I don’t think so.”

Chapter 4

Step two: Gather intel.

Don.

Mrs. Landry.

George Benson.

Barnes.

That wasn’t counting the one in the denim overalls, who had raced across someone’s yard in order to fling himself into Carol Miller’s car. Normal people didn’t do that.

So, five.

And those were only the ones she knew about so far. There was simply too much uncertainty in the outside world right now, so Emily focused on what she knew with 100 percent certainty, and went from there.

She gave half of her attention to the cleaning, disinfecting, then wrapping up of Greg’s injuries while using the other half to keep an ear out for everything outside the bathroom. Like, say, one of her neighbors trying to get into her house again. She had already treated Greg’s head, where Barnes had hit him with something heavy and broken the skin, but thankfully nothing else.

The bathroom was in the same rear hallway as Cole’s backroom, but the angle was wrong for her to keep an eye on the living room, and, beyond that the front door, while she took care of Greg. She could still hear sporadic gunfire from outside, but it was distant and faded and nowhere near enough to make her nervous. It sounded as if the shooting had moved away from Arrow Bay Colony, but how far exactly, she couldn’t be sure.

There hadn’t been another scream since they retreated to the bathroom, though police sirens came and went at odd intervals, and always from far away. She knew there was a local and understaffed Sheriff’s Department office along the state highway that connected the Bear Lake area with the main thoroughfare. Maybe the other gunshots had come from there.

Not that any of what was going on out there mattered to her in here right now.

The big man stood against the counter, eyes on the open door, too. He had started sweating, and she handed him one of her face towels while she finished wrapping up his hand.

“Your car’s in the garage?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes. Why?”

“What kind of car is it?”

“An Audi. I was supposed to trade up for an SUV. Or a minivan. One of those mom cars.”

“Maybe we should take it. Try to get out of here.”

“That woman tried.”

“Maybe she made it.”

“No, I don’t think she did, Greg.”

Greg didn’t answer for a while.

Then, “You didn’t know her?”

“No,” Emily said. It was easier to lie the second time.

“Just ’cause she didn’t make it doesn’t mean we wouldn’t, now that we know they’re out there. We can avoid them. Speed up. Not stop for anything.”

“I don’t think we should.”

“Why not?”

“You know when car accidents occur the most?”

“No…”

“During emergencies. More people die trying to leave the area of an emergency than the people who actually stay put.”

Greg didn’t look convinced. “How do you know that?”

“I don’t have a lot to do these days, so I watch a lot of TV.”

“You got that from TV?”

“Yes.” Then, without missing a beat, “Is Barnes still up there?”

Emily was hoping to take his thoughts away from escaping. She needed him here with her. Not that she thought Greg could ever replace a man like Cole as a protector, but, well, he was better than nothing.

Greg nodded. “His eyes... They were wild. Crazed. Blood was coming out of them.” He shook his head. “He tried to kill me. Why did he try to kill me?”

Just like Don, Mrs. Landry, George, and how many else?

But not Brody. She’d seen that. Brody wasn’t running around out there like someone looking to commit murder. He was fleeing. Scared out of his mind.

Emily wondered if the lanky teenager had made it to wherever he was going…

“What happened after Barnes cut you?” she asked Greg.

“I managed to knock the box cutter out of his hand, but he grabbed a hammer and charged me.” Greg touched his bandaged head and winced. “Got me good, too. But I got the upper hand on him, got him down to the floor. I’m bigger, so it wasn’t really much of a fight, but goddamn was he strong. Way stronger than I remembered.”

It’s the adrenaline, she thought, remembering how fast Don had been earlier and how he’d shaken off Mrs. Landry’s knife as if it was little more than a mosquito bite. Emily had seen people in combat situations act as if nothing had happened even after they’d been shot or stabbed. But adrenaline only lasted for so long before you felt everything.

At least, it used to.

“Barnes’s dead?” she asked Greg.

The big man nodded solemnly. “I killed him. Jesus. I killed him.”

The look on the contractor’s face told Emily that this was the first time he’d actually realized what he’d done.

“We started this business together,” Greg continued, staring out the open door but not really seeing anything beyond it. “Him and me. We always talked about it; then we finally did it, and… Jesus. I killed him. I killed my best friend in the world.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Greg. You had no choice.”

“I…” He paused for a moment. Then, searching out her eyes as if she had the answers, “Do you know what’s happening out there? What’s making people go insane?”

“No, but it’s all over the news.”

“It’s happening everywhere?”

She nodded. “I saw people killing each other on live TV.”

“So it’s not just here? Not just with us?”

“No. I think it’s citywide.” She told him about the live feed from the highway, the drivers climbing out of their wrecked cars and killing each other. “I’ve never seen anything like it. They were mad. Crazed, like you said. I couldn’t see them close enough, but if it’s anything like what was happening on the other channels, I think they were like Barnes. Like my neighbors. Bloodshot eyes.”

He was still staring at her.

“What?” Emily said.

“You’re pretty calm about this.”

“Should I be freaking out?”

“Shouldn’t you?”

She shrugged. “I wasn’t always a stay-at-home housewife, Greg.”

“What did you used to do?”

“I was in the service when I was younger. Army Intelligence.”

“Wow.”

She smiled. That wasn’t quite the reaction she’d expected. “It wasn’t that impressive. I mostly read reports and filed papers in offices around the world. It was pretty boring.”

He gave her a disbelieving look.

“Honest,” she said, and thought, I guess Greg’s smarter than he looks.

She would have told him the truth if she could, but there were things she couldn’t share with people—not even family, never mind random contractors working on her house—and would never be able to. Cole knew all about it because he had even more restraints on what he could say in public than she did. It was one of the reasons why they made such a good couple. No one else understood them—what they were, then and now—than one another.

Thinking about Cole made her remember the phone in her back pocket. She took it out now. “Give me a moment, Greg. I need to see if Cole’s okay.”

He nodded and turned around to splash cold water on himself, then wiped down his face with a towel. He wasn’t going to die on her anytime soon from his wounds, but the rest of him—especially the mental part—was still open to debate.

Emily focused on her phone and typed in her password, then pressed redial. It didn’t take long for the screen to flash “Unable to Connect.”

“Dammit,” she said quietly.

“No luck?” Greg asked.

She shook her head. “I can’t get a connection.”

“How’s that possible?”

“I don’t know,” she said, because it shouldn’t have been.

How was it even remotely possible that every cell tower in the area was down? With today’s technologically advanced infrastructure? If she didn’t know better, she’d think this wasn’t a natural event but an attack of some kind.

A very well-planned one, at that.

But she kept those thoughts to herself mostly because it didn’t help her situation, and it certainly wouldn’t have done Greg any good.

“Maybe he’s on his way here now,” the contractor was saying. He was looking at her with sympathetic eyes, trying to reassure her.

She appreciated that and pursed a smile back. “I know he is,” she said, even as images of the pile-up on TV and people scrambling out of their vehicles to murder one another flashed across her mind’s eye.

She put the mobile away. “Do you have a phone, Greg?”

“Yeah, but it got smashed during the fight. But Barnes had one on him, too, and I didn’t see it anywhere when I left him upstairs. Why? You want me to go get it? See if it works?”

“No, I’ll get it.”

“You?” he said, sounding very surprised.

“I need you to keep an eye on the doors and windows in case one of them tries to come in again. There’s a golf bag in the living room. You can grab one of the clubs or get a knife from the kitchen.”

“Okay,” he said, still looking strangely at her.

“I’ll be okay.”

“Maybe, but I should go, not you.”

“You said Barnes was dead.”

“Yes, but…”

“I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

She pursed another smile, again appreciating his efforts. She’d done the right thing keeping Greg inside the house with her instead of letting him run out there to get himself killed by Don or George Benson or another one of her crazed neighbors. Greg was fully embracing his protector side now.

“I’ll be okay. You just keep them out,” she said.

Greg nodded, but hesitantly. “Be careful.”

“You too.”

He hurried out the door, through the back hallway, and across the living room. She watched him locate the golf bag next to the door and sifted through the offerings before settling on a big club with a head that was twice the size of the one currently leaning against the counter next to her.

Emily grabbed that club and left the bathroom, then turned left to go up the stairs.

“Be careful,” Greg said from the windows, where he was standing guard.

She nodded. “I will be.”

Emily walked around the drops of blood that Greg had left on the stairs and along the banister as he fled down. The bloody trail led her all the way up to the second floor and stretched into the currently renovated study, two doors from the master bedroom at the very end of the hallway.

She found Barnes with his head literally buried in the open door where Greg had left him. The dead contractor looked as if he were in the midst of praying, with his shoulder sticking out of the door and the rest of his body sagging against the floor. His neck was clearly broken, which had caused his death.

Emily crouched next to the man and got a better look at him.

Step two: Gather intel.

Barnes was a much smaller man than Greg, and at least seventy pounds lighter. He was more her size, and she guessed that physical deficit was how Greg had managed to overcome his friend even though Barnes had gotten the drop on him with the box cutter, and was, if he was anything like Don and the others, hopped up on adrenaline.

The eyes gave it away. They were still bloodshot, the sclera in both eyes swimming in a sea of mesmerizing deep red. She’d spotted the same thing in Don and Mrs. Landry, but to see it up close like this…

She shivered slightly, but pushed the discomfort away and picked up a rag, then used it to turn Barnes’s head to get a better look at his neck. She didn’t want to touch him, just in case whatever had happened to him could infect her by physical contact.

The veins underneath Barnes’s skin were practically throbbing even in death. Whatever had happened to him, and to her neighbors that had turned them crazed, it had affected them from the inside out. What could possibly do something like that?

The possibilities were endless.

A bioweapon, maybe?

A natural phenomenon?

Just about anything was possible. Which was the problem.

Emily couldn’t find Barnes’s phone anywhere, not that she expected it to work even if she could. There was nothing wrong with her phone this morning and nothing wrong with it now. Except, of course, it wasn’t connecting.

Why? How?

Two more questions that she needed to answer.

Two of many.

Two of way, way too many.

The study looked as if a tornado had hit it, and everything that was in one piece this morning when she peeked in at the two contractors at work had been reduced to broken junk during their fight. Barnes hadn’t gone down easy, but neither had Greg. There was blood all over the walls and floor, especially near the wall where the two had grappled for some time. She guessed that was also where Greg’s phone, a silver device, had broken, chunks of it still scattered across the floor.

After some searching, she finally located Barnes’s Android phone in his pocket. She felt a little queasy about patting him down, something that wouldn’t have happened before her “retirement.”

She pulled the phone out, but when she powered it on, it asked for a password.

“Of course. Why would it be that easy?”

Emily stood up and pocketed the phone, looking around the room at the same time.

There.

It was a nail gun. Bright orange in the corner and lying on its side. It wasn’t exactly a gun, but it was a decent substitute.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

Emily picked it up. There was a half-full clip still loaded, the rest of the nails already embedded in the walls. It wasn’t too heavy—just a shade under seven pounds—and the trigger felt right. Best of all, it was portable, with a battery pack at one end to give it all the impact power it needed.

She shot a round into the far wall to get a feel for it.

Pfft!

It sounded like almost a suppressed gunshot but with less recoil. The range wasn’t too bad, either.

Emily glanced around but couldn’t find an extra battery.

Back downstairs, she found Greg camped between the front door and the closest window, clutching the large golf club like a sword. He glanced over as she hurried down the stairs.

“I forgot about that,” Greg said when he saw the nail gun in her hand.

“There’s only one battery,” Emily said.

“The other one’s in the van. Along with the charger.” Then, “You found it? Barnes’s phone?”

She nodded. “Yes.” She took it out to show him. “Do you know his password?”

“Password?”

“For his phone.”

“Oh.” He thought about it for a few seconds before shaking his head. “No.” Then, looking around her living room, “Don’t you have a landline?”

She smiled. “Who has landlines anymore, Greg?”

“I do.”

“You’re a rarity these days, then.”

That made him smile for the first time. “I guess.”

“Anything happen out there while I was upstairs?” she asked, pressing against the wall next to one of the windows and looking out.

Mrs. Landry was still where Don had left her, looking even more bloody now, if that was possible. And yet, strangely peaceful despite her bleeding eyes, which made her appear as if she were wearing a grotesque mask of some sort.

“Nothing,” Greg said. “Why is it so quiet out there? Shouldn’t there be more…chaos?”

“This is Bear Lake. People pay a lot of money for homes in a place like Arrow Bay Colony for a reason. It’s two hours from the city, from all the people and noise and pollution. There’s a police station nearby, but that’s the only one for at least ten miles. If this thing is citywide, like I think it is, then most of the chaos will be concentrated in the city. If I’m right about the timetable, then most people will have been stuck in or around downtown when this happened.”

“You saw it happening on the news?” Greg asked.

“Yes. Live TV was never so…graphic.”

“Must have been some sight.”

“It was something, all right.”

He peered outside. “How many neighbors do you have? How many of them are usually at home during the day?”

It was a good question, and she gave it serious thought before answering.

Arrow Bay was an upper-class community, but also a working one. Most of the homes were empty in the daytime, with only housewives and unemployed men like Don usually hanging around. If you were to rob an entire subdivision like Arrow Bay, you’d do it in the daytime. Which was why the front gate and the surrounding ten-foot fence was so vital. There were no security guards, but anyone willing to climb the barrier to get inside could probably steal to his heart’s content. Not that anyone had tried.

Besides her own house, there were a few others on her street with people inside during the daytime hours. Don next door was one of them. Mrs. Landry across the street was another. There was Eileen Pang three houses down; the Banners, a retired elderly couple, after her. The Duncans weren’t ready to retire yet, but they both worked overseas the majority of the time, and this was one of their rare “home” weeks, so both should have been sleeping in today. Everyone else, as far as she knew, had working husbands or wives; and like her Cole, those spouses would be on their way home when the chaos began.

She wondered how many of them were currently fighting for their lives on the freeways at this very second.

Or already dead.

Or doing the killing.

She sighed. Morbid thoughts like those weren’t going to do her or her unborn child any good. Cole was out there, and if he wasn’t affected, he would be headed back now. He’d do everything in his power to get home. Which meant she had to stay alive until he did.

Emily glanced up at the skies. Nightfall was still hours away, but there was nothing out here for her now. Certainly nothing that she couldn’t do in Cole’s backroom.

She looked across at Greg. “We should go.”

“Where?” the contractor asked.

“My husband’s room, in the back of the house.”

“What’s in there?”

“Safety. There’s also a TV. Maybe there’s something on the news that we can learn. We can’t do anything standing out here.”

He nodded, liking that idea. Or maybe, like her, he didn’t like standing out here waiting for one of the crazies to come get them.

“Maybe there’s some news about what’s happening out there,” Greg said.

“Let’s hope so,” she said, even if she didn’t fully believe it.

Chapter 5

“What were you doing when Barnes tried to kill you?”

“I was rewiring the wall. He caught me off guard.”

“You didn’t hear him coming?”

“No. I had earbuds on.”

“Earbuds?”

“I was listening to music on my phone, or else he wouldn’t have gotten so close to me with that box cutter. I guess I was lucky I felt him coming anyway and turned around before he could really do a lot of damage. Who knows what he was going to do. Maybe cut my throat. What about you?”

“I was down here taking a nap.”

“Oh. Because we were so loud.”

“It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

She stopped halfway to the TV and looked back at him.

“What is it?” Greg said.

“Why weren’t we affected? Something turned Barnes crazy. My neighbor Don Taylor, too. And Mrs. Landry across the street. But nothing happened to us. You, me, or that woman in the SUV. I also saw a kid named Brody earlier. He didn’t look affected, either.”

“I don’t know. I was just trying to survive Barnes.” He touched his bandaged head again almost instinctively. “What did the TV say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

She shook her head. “I got the feeling it all happened so fast that no one knew what was happening and no one had time to figure it out.”

“Because they were too busy trying to kill each other. Or not get killed.”

“Yeah. I think that pretty much sums it up.”

She remembered the frozen stares of the two anchors, the woman with too much makeup on the home shopping network, and the others. The calm before the storm, as it turned out, before the hurricane ripped through the city.

But was it just the city? Was the rest of the state affected?

The nation?

The world?

Step one: Know your objective.

Step two: Gather intel.

Step three: Formulate a plan.

And finally, step four: Execute that plan.

She had step one down pat but was struggling with step two. It was going to be a little difficult to accomplish that one if she couldn’t leave the house. Worse, she didn’t have any connections to the outside world.

It was times like these that Emily realized just how much dependence she had on her little gadgets. When was the last time she bothered to actually memorize someone’s phone number? Or opened a reference book for information? Or did something besides hop onto the Internet and Google it?

“Something happened, something bad,” Emily said. “But not to us. Why not us?”

Greg shook his head. “I dunno. I just renovate people’s houses.” He let out a big sigh of frustration. “This whole thing’s way over my head.” He nodded past her. “Maybe there’s something on TV that’ll give us some answers.”

She didn’t actually believe that—if her phone wasn’t working anymore, what were the chances the TVs were still broadcasting?—but she kept those doubts to herself. Instead, she resumed leading Greg across the room.

“This is your husband’s?” the contractor asked.

“Uh huh.”

“It’s one hell of a man cave. What does he do? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“He owns a security company called RistWorks.”

“Rist? That’s your last name. Ristler.”

“Yes.” Then, before he could ask her any more personal questions she’d rather not answer, “Greg, do you have family?”

“In the city? No. I moved here to partner up with Barnes. I was seeing someone, but it never got too serious.”

Good, she thought, because lack of family or a girlfriend meant Greg wasn’t going to run out on her. She should have felt guilty about how she was using him, but she didn’t. Besides, by staying here with her, he was saving himself, too. If the streets outside already resembled a killing zone and they were way out here beyond the city limits, she couldn’t imagine what it was like inside the city limits right now.

The TV remote was where she’d left it. Emily put the nail gun down on the table and picked the remote up and flicked the big screen on.

The first channel that popped up was the local news, except there was just static instead of picture.

“That’s not good,” Greg said quietly as he stood beside her.

Understatement, Greg. Understatement.

Click!

More snow on the TV screen.

Greg didn’t say anything this time, and neither did she as she clicked again.

A black screen with the words: TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES. PLEASE STAND BY. scrolled across the screen.

At least it was better than just static.

Click!

More static.

Click!

An empty black screen.

Click! Click! Click!

A sea of white snow or empty black screens (in some cases, empty blue screen) greeted her with every click of the remote. A familiar phrase from an old song sprang to the forefront of her mind: “57 Channels (And Nothing On).”

Except it wasn’t 57 channels. It was more like a hundred.

Or maybe two hundred.

Finally, she gave up and put the remote down. “There’s nothing out there.”

“What does this mean?” Greg asked.

“I don’t know,” Emily said. “I don’t know.”

And that scares me, she thought but kept it to herself.

First the phones and now the TV.

Gone. All gone. Just like that.

She could see the hallmarks of an attack when she saw one, and this was definitely one.

Who? was the question.

Better yet: How?

* * *

Greg drank one of Cole’s cans of Red Bull, then chased it down with a bottle of 5-Hour Energy. She’d never seen Cole do that and hoped the combination of two energy drinks one after another didn’t have some side effect that would make Greg useless. That would make all her efforts to keep him here with her for naught.

Emily had given up finding anything on TV so left it tuned to one of the 24-hour news channels, hoping something would pop up other than a blue screen with the words Please Stand By.

She checked her phone every few minutes, waiting for Cole to call back and trying to call him. Neither things happened. At least she could still keep the mobile charged, which she did the first chance she got. The biggest reason phone batteries drained was the direct result of the device trying to find a signal.

But it couldn’t find one. Not a damn thing.

What is going on out there?

“Still nothing?” Greg asked from across the room. He was on his second can of Red Bull.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

He shrugged, but she knew what he really wanted to say: “I’m sorry your husband is out there, and probably dead. Or crazed.”

“I don’t hear anything out there,” Greg said, maybe hoping to change the subject. “Why is that?”

“The walls.”

“They’re soundproof?”

“No, but it’s a lot thicker back here. Let’s just say Cole didn’t exactly adhere to specs when he had this room built.”

“No wonder you didn’t hear us beating the crap out of each other upstairs. I must have screamed a half dozen times.”

He touched his bandaged temple and winced again. She wanted to tell him he should probably stop doing that.

“I definitely called Barnes all kinds of names when he tagged me the first time.”

“I was asleep.”

“You do that a lot?”

“Not before, but these days…” She sighed and sat down on the couch and stared at the screen. It read the same text as it did the last time she looked: Please Stand By.

“Two months?” Greg said.

She looked over. “What?”

“You’re two months pregnant?”

She pursed a smile and nodded. “Yes.” For effect, Emily reached down and touched her stomach.

“Boy or girl?”

“We don’t know yet. Cole and I want it to be a surprise.”

She gave Greg a long look. It didn’t occur to her that she had never really done that even though this wasn’t the first time they’d met. But like most people that came and went in her life, Emily had learned long ago to compartmentalize. Not everything was worth remembering, and not everyone was worth reading. Contractors came and went, and she hadn’t expected Greg or Barnes to be any different.

Greg wasn’t exactly a young man. He was in his early thirties, and she knew early on when he and Barnes came over to price quote the job that Barnes was the more experienced of the two. It was the other man who did most of the talking, and in the days since they had begun the renovation, she usually saw Greg with his earbuds on, listening to music. Like most men who had known each other for a while, the two rarely wasted time with inane chatter while they worked. If Greg hadn’t told her they were best friends, she wouldn’t have figured it out. Unless, of course, she’d paid closer attention to their silent interactions, which she hadn’t.

She did that now, attempting to really understand a man who could very well decide if she made it through this—whatever this ended up being—or not.

Step one: Know your objective.

Step two: Gather intel.

Fortunately, Greg was too busy looking at the metal door and didn’t notice how hard she was scrutinizing him.

“Have you ever been married?” she asked.

Greg shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Close?”

“Once, but…” He shrugged. “It didn’t work out.” He turned back to her. “Is marriage all it’s cracked up to be?”

“I guess it depends on whether you’ve found the right one.”

“Did you? With your husband?”

“I think so, yes.”

He grinned. “You’re not sure?”

She smiled. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“That’s good,” he said almost absently as he looked back at the door.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Maybe we should find out what’s happening outside. We’ve been in here for a while, and there’s nothing on TV.”

“It’s safer in here.”

“Maybe, but there’s no answers in here. That’s what we want, right? Answers?”

She nodded. He had a point.

Step two: Gather intel.

“How long have we been in here anyway?” Greg asked. “An hour?”

“About two, I think,” she said, glancing down at her watch. “It’ll start to get dark soon, so we’ll have to be careful. And quiet.”

“I’ll go first,” Greg said, walking to the door with the golf club held in front of him like a sword.

Emily sighed and got up. She didn’t really want to go back out there. Whatever was happening, it couldn’t touch her in here.

So why was she going out?

Because step two was to gather intelligence.

And also, she didn’t want Greg to get himself killed.

Chapter 6

The soft click of the metal door closing behind her was a lot louder than she remembered. Of course, it could have just been the pervading silence, not just within the walls of her house but also beyond. It sounded very much as if all of Arrow Bay had gone to sleep about two hours before it usually did every night.

She looked down at her watch’s illuminated hands: 7:17 p.m. They’d been inside the backroom a lot longer than she had thought, though it’d only felt like a few minutes.

She could see the lights in her front yard, equipped with dust-to-dawn automatic sensors, already beginning to glow to life. The same for the houses across the street and the solar-powered streetlights along the roads. Even if the power were to go out tonight—and she had a feeling that was coming next—then they would still have light. She wasn’t entirely sure if that was a good thing or not, though. If they didn’t have power to see with, then neither would those affected by whatever had befallen her neighbors.

Greg’s white van was parked on the curb where she last saw it, and though she couldn’t really see him, she was almost certain the headless mailman was where Don had left him. Mrs. Landry, too, lay just beyond one of her windows.

The impossibly quiet streets didn’t offer up any hints as to what had happened while she was hiding in the backroom.

“Quiet,” Greg whispered as he walked in front of her, the bright orange nail gun clutched in one hand like a gun. “Too quiet.”

She smiled, knowing that he couldn’t see. Greg’s comment was exactly what someone in a horror movie would say as they and their companions traveled across a dark house. Unlike the automated lights outside, her home still needed someone to turn on the switches. Which was something she hadn’t done when she escaped into the backroom. They also didn’t do it now as they moved across the silent and dark living room. Lights, after all, indicated someone was home. Right now that wasn’t something she wanted the crazies out there to know.

But Greg was right. It was quiet. Too quiet. It shouldn’t have been this quiet. Where were the people? The chaos? Right now she would settle for something. Anything. Even sporadic gunfire would tell her that she and Greg weren’t the only two people still left.

The front door was still intact, the bookcase she had placed over one of the windows exactly where she’d left it. She checked the kitchen to her right. There was a door on the other end which opened out into the slate-tiled walkway. The backyard and boat slip was beyond that. The lights had also come on behind the house, the halos of illumination visible through the security glass.

In front of her, Greg was reaching for one of the light switches on the wall.

“Don’t turn on the lights,” she said quickly.

Greg froze. “Why not?”

“Maybe the reason no one’s tried to come inside before is because they don’t think anyone’s home.”

“You mean the psychos?”

“Yes.”

“Good point.” He pulled his hand away from the switch quickly, as if afraid it might try to shock him.

“I need to check the backyard, just in case.”

“Why?”

“Just to make sure.”

“I’ll go—”

“No,” she said before he could finish. “Watch the front door and windows.”

He squinted at her in the semidarkness. “I should go.”

“I’ll be okay. You can still see me from here.”

He nodded reluctantly. “Be careful.”

“You too.”

She hurried across the living room and into the kitchen, then moved through the darkening space to the back door. The small lights that lined the walkway had come on, providing a winding road to the covered boat slip next to the lake. Two solar-powered lampposts stood guard at the other end. Cole’s eighteen-footer was housed inside the boat house, the white paint of its bow visible from thirty yards away.

But it was the lights on the other waterfront houses across the inlet from theirs, in a subdivision called Pebble Creek, that she focused on. Like hers, the lights on them had begun to perk to life as night began its descent, but the interiors that she could make out remained dark. There were always people who turned their lights off early, but never all of them at once. The same was true for the house to the left and right of her.

She did a quick check of the door and was shocked to find it unlocked. Or maybe she shouldn’t have been so shocked. After all, there was no reason to lock it during the day, and in all the chaos with Don and Greg, it had never occurred to her to lock every door into the house. Retreating into Cole’s backroom was always the better idea.

She quickly locked the door now, not that she thought it would keep anyone like an adrenaline-fueled Don out. All he’d have to do was break the glass on the top and reach in, just like he’d attempted with the front window. Or he didn’t even have to bother with that; a couple of kicks in the right spots would crater the doorknob and give him access to her house.

Emily reached for one of the dinner table chairs and slipped it underneath the doorknob. Not exactly the most high-tech of locks, but it’d make it just a little bit more difficult for someone to bust in. If nothing else, they would have to exert more effort, and in her experience, most criminal acts were crimes of opportunity. Make it a little harder for them, and they usually went somewhere else—somewhere easier. Not that she thought Don or George were your average criminals. She didn’t even know what the hell they were, and maybe that was what made them so dangerous.

Step two: Gather intel.

Yeah, she was going to have to work on that one.

She hurried back to the living room, where Greg was plastered against the wall in the dark, next to the door. He was peeking out at the front yard through the curtains. His eyes were darting left and right, searching for something out there. For the psychos, as he’d called them. She guessed that was as good a name as any. Don sure as hell looked and was acting like a psycho earlier. Mrs. Landry, too, so whatever had happened to them didn’t care about gender.

As she moved across the room toward Greg, she remembered Brody, the lanky teen, and wondered again if he had made it. Had he reached the front gate? There was a control panel that controlled the gate, which she assumed the kid would have the access codes for. Or he could have just climbed the ten-foot fence. It wouldn’t exactly be easy, but Brody was tall enough and not out of shape, so it was doable.

“Everything okay?” Greg whispered as she slid against the other side of the window across from him.

No. I forgot to lock the door, and we’re lucky no one came in to lie in wait in the darkness for us, she thought but said, “Everything’s fine.”

He nodded, relieved.

She looked out the window at the front yard. She could make out Mrs. Landry’s body just under the windowsill but chose not to linger on it. She’d already seen all she needed to, and staring at it some more was pointless. She’d liked the old housewife well enough, but it wasn’t like they were best friends or anything.

“What did you see back there?” Greg asked.

“It’s like out here,” she said. “The lights inside the houses I could see across the lake are all dark. Like no one’s home.”

“How is that possible?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how any of this is possible.” She paused for a moment, before continuing. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Me neither.”

She wanted to say, “But you never traveled around the world, visited every country, even the ones with unpronounceable names,” but of course she didn’t.

Emily said instead, “We can’t be the only ones left. There has to be people hiding inside the other houses, too. Like us, trying not to be noticed. They would have seen that the phones are down and there’s nothing on TV. Anyone with any semblance of intelligence would figure out that things are not good at the moment, and the right move—maybe the only move—is to lay low.”

“Right. So, don’t turn on the lights.”

“Exactly.”

“I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

“It’s okay, Greg. That’s why there’s two of us. We’ll make up for where the other lacks.”

He forced a smile. “Yeah, I guess.”

He was feeling sorry for himself. She could see it on his face even in the semidarkness of the living room.

Emily said, “You haven’t seen anything out there?”

Greg shook his head. “Nothing. Not even a fly.”

“Can you see a fly?”

He grinned. “I’m just saying…”

She smiled back. “I know, Greg. I’m just teasing you.”

He chuckled softly. “This isn’t the time, Mrs. Ristler.”

“Emily. Call me Emily.”

“Okay, Emily.”

She looked back out the window at the darkening world. If not for the automated lights on the homes, lawns, and streets, they would be slowly drowning in a swath of deep darkness right about now. She knew the electricity was still working because the digital alarm on one of the dressers in the living room continued to display the time in big bright-red letters.

“Look,” Greg said.

She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be looking at and was about to ask him, when she saw it:

A dog was racing up the street, dragging a leash behind it.

“What’s it doing?” Greg asked.

“Looks like it’s making a run for it. Smart dog.”

“How’s it going to get out of the neighborhood?”

“I don’t have any idea. Maybe it can squeeze through the fence.”

They watched the animal continue to jog up the sidewalk. Emily kept expecting Don or George or one of her other neighbors whose names she didn’t know to pop out of the shadows to attack the dog, but nothing happened.

Eventually, the dog disappeared from their view.

“I hope it makes it,” Greg said, almost wistfully.

Emily wanted to say, “I hope I make it, Greg,” but she didn’t.

She said instead, “Yeah. Me too.”

She glanced down at her watch. Not even close to 8:00 yet. How long had they been out here? Far from the sanctuary of the backroom—

Emily stared at the digital clock across the room.

Or where it was supposed to be, anyway, because it’d gone off.

There was just a patch of darkness there right now.

“The lights,” she said softly.

“What?” Greg said.

“The lights just went out.”

“How do you know? The ones outside are still on.”

“Those are automated. Solar-powered. The power grid just went down across the city.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t know, but I just know.”

She moved along the wall to the nearest light switch.

“What are you doing?” Greg asked, alarmed.

“I need to make sure,” Emily said.

“Emily, don’t—”

But she flicked the switch up before he could finish.

And nothing happened.

They stared across the darkness at each other.

“The electricity’s down,” Greg said.

Emily didn’t respond, because she was too busy thinking to herself, First the phones. Then the TV. And now, the power grid.

Oh yeah, we’re definitely under attack.

She was sure of it. As sure as she’d been about anything in her life.

The question was: By who?

They stood in silence for a moment, with just their shallow breathing (though Greg’s seemed just a tad louder than hers) filling up the emptiness. If Greg had any ideas about how to proceed, he wasn’t sharing it with her. She didn’t know, either. The Army had trained her to do a lot of things, and she’d collected more experiences in the private sector afterward, but how to proceed in cases of days like today had not been one of them. Not even close.

“What about my van?” Greg finally said.

“What about it?”

He held up the nail gun. “The other battery pack’s inside. Charger’s useless without power, but the other battery’s fully charged last time I checked.”

“You think it’s worth risking it for another battery?”

“No.”

“So why did you mention it?”

“I was thinking more about the van…”

“What about it?”

“Maybe we should make a run for it. Try to get out of here?”

“Won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“You need to open the gate to get out.”

“You remotely opened it for us from in here. Can’t you do that again?”

“No. Without electricity, the gate can’t be opened or closed. At least not remotely. If you made it to the gate, you’d have to get out and pry it open.” She shook her head. “I don’t think we want to be doing that, Greg.”

“The psychos…”

“Yeah. The psychos. Maybe some of them got out earlier, and maybe not. I don’t know about you, but if we can stay safe in here, I’d like to stay safe in here.”

“That’s a good point.”

“But we need to prepare for the worst.”

“What’s worse than this?”

Oh, it can always get worse, Greg, she wanted to say.

She settled for, “If this is as widespread as I think it is, it’s going to be a while before the authorities get a handle on it. We need to outlast this.”

“And how do we do that?”

“I have nonperishables in the kitchen and other supplies upstairs. I think we should start taking what we can into the backroom. Water, canned goods, anything portable, and all the batteries we can find.”

“Barnes and I bought a pack of batteries with us. They’re still on the second floor.”

“I’ll get those. You start with the kitchen.”

“There’s more stuff in the van…”

“Maybe tomorrow, when it’s not dark. Let’s not take any unnecessary risks.”

“You really think it’s that bad? Out there?”

Bad? No, Greg, I don’t think it’s “that” bad. I think it’s worse.

A hell of a lot worse.

“Maybe,” she said. “I just know that right now we need to prepare for the worst and hope for the best.”

Day 2

Chapter 7

She opened her eyes to gunshots.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. She was living in her dream house, with a husband and a baby on the way. They’d gone to a lot of effort to get as far away from the city as possible while still keeping Cole’s business within commuting distance. There shouldn’t have been any gunshots out here. But then again, nothing that had happened yesterday should have been possible, either.

Some retirement, Emily thought as she sat up on the loveseat.

Greg was snoring in front of her, oblivious to the shots. She knew it was morning without having to look at her watch. Even without windows, the room had brightened up noticeably, adding to the light provided by the two lamps she’d turned on last night. The lights, currently both set to dim, were LEDs and ran on batteries that could be recharged with the sun.

Recharged by the sun, because they didn’t have power anymore.

Just like they didn’t have phones.

Or TV.

Coincidence? Maybe, but she didn’t believe in coincidences. Emily always defaulted to evidence. And right now, everything was pointing to a coordinated attack.

How do you take down an army? Easy. First, you launch a surprise attack. Then you cut off the enemy’s ability to communicate and choke the supply lines. And then you go in for the kill.

But none of that mattered right now.

Right now, it was all about surviving the next 24 hours.

Then after that, the next 24 hours…

She got up and hurried over to Greg, and nudged the big man awake. “Greg, wake up. Greg.”

He opened his eyes and gave her a groggy grunt before starting to sit up. “What’s wrong?”

“I heard gunshots.”

His head turned immediately toward the door. “I don’t hear anything.”

“I heard them.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. The walls are thick, so if I can hear them all the way in here, it means they’re close by.”

“How close?”

“I don’t know, but close.”

“So what should we do?”

She looked around at the room. They could stay back here for weeks using the nonperishables they’d scavenged from the house last night. There was also a perfectly working bathroom that, even though the power grid had gone down, would still work thanks to the water tower nearby. Or, at least, until that ran dry, but that wouldn’t happen right away.

“What should we do?” Greg asked again, watching her closely.

“We should find out what’s happening,” Emily said as she stood up.

Step two: Gather intel.

“Maybe that’s a bad idea,” Greg said as he stood up next to her.

“We’ll have to go outside sooner or later.”

“Still…”

“You can stay in here and wait for me.”

Greg’s eyes widened slightly. “What? And let you go out by yourself?”

She gave him a pursed smile. Greg was so predictable; like a lot of men, he had a chivalrous streak in him. The fact that she was pregnant probably brought out even more of the knight in shining armor. She should have felt a little guilty about manipulating him emotionally like that, but she didn’t.

“Come with me, then,” Emily said.

He nodded reluctantly and picked up the nail gun from the floor where he’d laid it next to him as he slept. “Let me go first.”

“Of course.”

They walked across the room, Greg in the lead. He still looked groggy and was shaking his head to get rid of the cobwebs. She should have been too, but her alarm systems were already up to full power. Gunshots had that effect on her.

“How many shots did you hear?” Greg asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe three or four—”

As if on cue, they both heard the faint pop! of another gunshot.

Then, a few seconds later, pop-pop!

Those last two, Emily thought, sounded much closer than the first one.

“I heard that,” Greg said.

“Me, too.”

He stopped halfway to the door and looked back at her. “You sure you want to be doing this?”

“We have to find out what’s going on out there.”

“Do we?”

“Don’t you want to know?”

He didn’t answer right away, and she could see him wrestling with the question. Did he want to know? Or was he smart enough to realize staying in here, where it was safe (okay, so maybe not safe, but safer), was the better option? For that matter, why wasn’t she thinking the same thing?

“Let’s…just be careful,” Greg finally said.

She nodded. “Agreed.”

Emily snatched up her golf club leaning against the wall next to the door.

They were going to have to manually open the steel door the way they had done it last night after the power went down. Usually the door would have clicked softly open for her as she approached, but the absence of electricity meant no automated motion sensors.

Greg turned the lock first, then reached for the handle. He didn’t turn the lever right away, but instead glanced back at her one more time.

She gave him a reassuring look and nod.

He returned it, then pushed the handle down and pulled the door back. She had never really noticed how heavy the door was until Greg had to pry it open last night. It was two inches of 12-gauge steel, which made it heavy enough that Greg had to use both hands. Not an easy feat, given his injuries. But even hurt, the contractor was still way stronger than her.

Sunlight was flooding the back hallway on the other side, along the parts of the dining and living room that she could see from back here. Greg went out first, leaving the backroom door open behind them. Emily followed, itching to go on ahead of him to get a better look, but stuck to her role as damsel in distress for Greg’s sake.

Oh, the things I do for men’s egos.

They didn’t hear more shooting as they walked the rest of the way out of the back hallway, then across the living room. Morning sunlight washed the carpets in bright pools of glowing white colors, a stark difference from last night.

They hurried through the rest of the house and over to the front windows. Emily pressed against the wall on the left side of one of the windows—Greg took up position on the other side, the nail gun like a pistol at his side—and looked out.

The streets were empty and there were no signs of movement. Certainly, no hints of anything that even resembled an ongoing gun battle. So where did the gunshots she’d heard come from? It had to be close by.

The front door of Mrs. Landry’s house across the street was open, just as the retiree had left it when she charged out and stabbed Don in the back with a knife yesterday. Don’s house, to the right of her, was hidden from view. And so was George Benson’s, farther up the street. Emily couldn’t see much of anything except the buildings in front and across the street from her, and those were as still as could be.

Too still. She couldn’t help picturing Don Taylor or one of her other neighbors lying in wait. They’d gone crazy, but nothing about what she’d seen told her they’d also gone stupid.

A slight wind howled through a few of the open windows around her, and blew newspapers along the sidewalk on the other side of her front yard. Arrow Bay Colony was known as a pristine subdivision, so that was a little jarring to see.

“Look,” Greg said, pointing.

Emily followed his finger to Carol Miller’s damaged SUV, still parked up the street where she’d crashed it less than 24 hours ago. There were no signs of Carol or any of the psychos that had been converging on her. Emily couldn’t make out very many details from all the way down here and was glad for it.

“You think she made it?” Greg asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I hope she made it.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“You said you didn’t know her?”

“No. It’s a big neighborhood.”

Flickers of movement, just before two appeared out of nowhere, fleeing down the street past Carol Miller’s smashed vehicle.

“Whoa, where’d they come from?” Greg said, moving slightly to get a better view outside. “Are they trying to get to the front gate?”

Emily didn’t answer right away, but she didn’t think so. It was a man and a woman, and if they were trying to make the gate, they were going in the wrong direction.

“No,” she said.

“You sure?”

“Yes. They’re going in the wrong direction.”

“Oh.”

As the pair got closer, their faces became clearer. It was a man and a woman—technically. But even more specifically, it was a boy and a girl. Teenagers.

And right now, the boy had slowed down just enough to turn slightly and point his hand behind him.

No, not his hand. There was something at the end of his outstretched arm.

Sunlight glinted off the steel barrel of a gun.

I could use that, Emily thought as the kid fired, the gun bucking in his hand.

She couldn’t see what he was shooting at, but he must not have hit it because he turned around, and still in full stride, shouted at his companion, “Faster! We gotta go faster!”

The girl didn’t respond, but she didn’t slow down, either. She kept running, long blonde hair streaming behind her. She was wearing jeans and sneakers that squeaked loudly with every harried step she took. Neither her nor the boy appeared very athletic, and they seemed to be already running out of steam.

“Someone’s chasing them,” Greg said.

No shit, Greg, Emily thought, but she said, “Yes.”

“Where do you think they’re going?”

I don’t know, but I don’t think they’re going to make it, she thought when a third figure appeared behind the teenagers, pursuing them.

He was a tall man in denim overalls, the steel head of an ax sparkling in the sunlight as it waved up and down in his hand.

It was the same psycho from yesterday. The one that had tried to stop Carol Miller as she fled in the SUV. He hadn’t succeeded—or maybe he had. Emily would never know, and frankly, she didn’t want to know.

As the trio got closer, Emily was able to see more of them. Especially the one chasing the teenagers. She’d never seen him before, but there was no mistaking the blood splattered across the front of his clothes. It wasn’t just other people’s blood but some of his own, too. The man was bleeding. He was leaving bright red droplets behind him on the sidewalk as he chased after the duo. The boy hadn’t missed entirely after all, though that didn’t seem to have stopped the psycho.

And Emily knew he was a psycho, as Greg called them, even if she couldn’t quite make out the mask of blood on his face or dripping from his eyes because he was moving so fast. She could just tell from the way he moved, the way he disregarded however many bullet wounds the boy had put into him with the gun.

That gun. Dammit, I could use that gun.

The figures were two houses from her now and getting closer.

“They’re not going to make it,” Greg said.

“Maybe,” she said.

“We should go out and help them.”

“Wait…”

“Why?”

“Just wait.”

“But why?” Greg asked as he lifted the nail gun slightly and tightened his fingers around the grip.

Greg was right. The kids weren’t going to make it. The psycho was faster, and he was catching up with every passing heartbeat. The man was barely ten feet away from the girl, the slower of the two, when the boy slowed down again and turned slightly, and fired again.

Denim jerked one shoulder back (Nice shot, kid! Emily thought) before he resumed his pursuit. More red droplets pelted the sidewalk, these new ones coming from his left shoulder. Getting shot had slowed the man down for maybe half a second, but it hadn’t done anything to stop him.

The boy knew it too because he turned around and, still running, shouted, “Faster! We gotta go faster! He’s not gonna stop!”

The girl didn’t say anything back, but she did throw a quick glance over her shoulder. When she looked forward again, Emily saw raw fear on her face. Her eyes were bulging, her cheeks turning cherry red. And the poor kid was starting to slow down, even as every inch of her seemed to be straining harder and harder…

She’s not going to make it.

If the girl didn’t make it, then the boy wouldn’t, either. There was almost no chance he was going to abandon her. They were either boyfriend and girlfriend or siblings. Either way, if she was caught, then so was he.

Shit, Emily thought when she saw the boy trying desperately to reload the gun. No wonder he hadn’t fired again, because he couldn’t; the pistol was empty.

“What’s he doing?” Greg asked.

“He’s trying to reload the gun,” Emily said.

She hadn’t gotten gun out, when she saw the magazine falling out of the mag well as the boy was trying to force it in, and clanging off the pavement behind him. The look of horror on the boy’s face told Emily everything she needed to know: That was either his last magazine or…

No, that was it. The kid, while trying to reload, had just dropped his last magazine, and now he was dead meat. They both were.

Oh, kid. That was stupid. That was really stupid.

“We have to help—” Greg was saying.

She didn’t hear the rest of it because Emily was too busy snatching the nail gun out of Greg’s hand and running to the door. The contractor was so shocked that it didn’t take very much effort to pry the construction tool from him.

“Emily!” Greg shouted.

She barely heard her name as she pulled the deadbolt back and jerked the door open and ran outside almost all in the same motion. She flexed her fingers around the grip of the bright orange nail gun as she pounded down the concrete walkway. It’d been a long time since she held something that could even be considered a weapon in her hands.

“Hey!” Emily shouted. “Get inside!”

Emily was waving her free arm to get their attention, not that she really needed to. The teens were almost at her driveway when she burst outside, and they would have spotted her even if they hadn’t heard her.

Without hesitation, the girl made a sharp right turn up Emily’s driveway, the boy doing the same behind her. But even as he made the turn, Denim was almost directly on top of the boy. Bright sunlight glinted off the very sharp and bloodied edge of the ax in the man’s hand.

The kid’s not going to make it. Shit. He’s not going to make it!

“Get down!” she shouted.

Thank God the kid listened to her. Except he didn’t just drop to the hard concrete, but instead threw himself sideways and into the grass. He landed on his chest and face just as the ax sliced the air where his head had been only a heartbeat ago.

Finally, Emily got the confirmation she’d been seeking: Denim’s bloodshot eyes, thin strips of blood flowing down the corners, and his heaving chest. He was like Don Taylor. Like Barnes. George Benson. And Mrs. Landry.

Psycho.

A quick flash of clothing as the girl was almost on top of her.

“Get inside!” Emily shouted at her.

She wasn’t sure if the girl even heard her, but the teenager didn’t stop and ran past Emily and into the house.

“Greg!” Emily shouted.

“I got her!” the contractor shouted back from somewhere behind her.

Emily lifted the nail gun, took aim, and squeezed the trigger.

Pfft!

She hit Denim in the chest with the first two-inch nail.

Pfft!

And missed entirely with the second.

Pfft!

But sent the third one into the side of the man’s neck purely by accident. She’d been aiming for the biggest part of him—his chest.

Better lucky than good!

Not that two nails stopped the psycho when the boy’s gunshots hadn’t. Denim kept coming, but not at her. He was moving, single-mindedly, toward the boy, who was crawling on the yard between them.

“Pete!” The girl, shouting from behind Emily.

The boy, Pete, was scrambling on all fours, and it took Emily a moment to figure out why: He was crawling toward the fallen gun that he’d dropped, buried about five yards among the grass in front of him. If he was aware of Denim stalking him from behind, he didn’t show it. She didn’t know if that was bravery or stupidity on the kid’s part.

Either way, she couldn’t let him die.

Emily squeezed the trigger on the nail gun again and sent five more rounds at Denim.

Pfft-pfft-pfft-pfft-pfft!

She struck him two more times in the chest, hit him in the left shoulder with a third (almost at the same place where Pete had shot him earlier), but missed with the rest.

And still, Denim ignored her and focused on catching up to Pete.

The man was raising the ax again, preparing to deliver the killing blow, when Emily took very careful aim this time. She used the last eight shots as reference and squeezed the trigger for the ninth time.

Pfft!

She hit Denim in the forehead, right between the eyes, and he snapped his head back and fell to the ground. Sunlight glinted off the nails embedded in his body, but it was that one nail in his forehead that had done the trick—

Or not, because the man started to get back up.

Sonofabitch, die already! Emily thought as she calmly walked toward him and fired again, and again, and again.

She sent three more into his forehead.

Pfft-pfft-pfft!

She could feel the clip getting lighter but didn’t stop pulling the trigger.

Pfft-pfft-pfft-pfft-pfft!

Until, finally, the man fell down.

And this time, he didn’t get back up.

“Get back inside!” a voice shouted from behind her. Greg.

She glanced back and saw Greg pulling the girl and Pete, who had retrieved his gun, into the house.

“Come on, Emily!” the big man shouted.

She didn’t head back right away. Instead, she hurried down the driveway and onto the sidewalk, then grabbed the magazine that the boy had dropped earlier. There was blood on it, but she wiped it away—

Movement out of the corner of her eyes made her stop and look across the street.

Don Taylor was standing in the open doorway of Mrs. Landry’s house, that bloody gardening hoe/ninja weapon hanging loosely, almost nonchalantly, in his right hand. He looked across the street back at her, as if wanting her to know that he’d seen her.

Then he smiled.

Sonofabitch, Emily thought as she locked eyes with her former neighbor. The nail gun felt heavy again in her hand, and she thought about launching a few nails in his direction, but it wouldn’t have done any good. Don was hopelessly beyond the construction tool’s range.

Don seemed to know that too, and kept his distance.

Crazy, but not stupid.

The mild-mannered forty-something that Emily was used to seeing puttering around his yards was gone, replaced by this…psycho. And he wasn’t a stupid psycho, either, because he hadn’t charged across the street and put himself into her line of fire. Instead, he’d held back, watching, and smiling.

And waiting.

Waiting for what?

For her to let her guard down.

For the right time to attack.

Don Taylor had become a predator.

Then the man turned around and went back inside Mrs. Landry’s house, closing the door softly—impossibly softly—behind him.

The hairs on the back of Emily’s neck spiked as she did the same. But instead of walking calmly back to her own house, where Greg was holding the door open for her with an almost shocked look on his face, Emily picked up her pace and just barely managed not to run inside.

Chapter 8

“How many left?” Greg asked.

She held up the nail gun and counted the nails inside the clip, visible through a slit along the side. “About a dozen.”

“You really shot that guy up.”

Emily couldn’t tell if that was amazement or horror on Greg’s face as he said it.

She said, “He kept coming; I had to make sure.”

“I know, it’s just that…”

“What?”

“Man, you really shot that guy up,” Greg said again.

“Sometimes that’s what it takes.”

His eyebrows raised slightly in a And how do you know that? expression, but the words themselves didn’t come out.

She looked over at the two kids while Greg went to check that the door was locked. Pete was sitting on one of the chairs in the dining room while the girl, Savannah, used a roll of paper to wipe blood off his scraped elbows, chin, and forehead. Emily hadn’t seen it earlier, but before he even took the spill on her front lawn and tore up parts of his face, Pete already had bloody elbows and forearms, and his shirt was partially torn.

Emily put the nail gun down on the table and picked up the automatic Pete had been using. It was a 1911 model SIG Sauer, and it felt very light unloaded.

“Where did you get this?” she asked the teenagers.

“It’s my dad’s,” Pete said.

Emily took out the magazine she’d salvaged, that Pete had dropped.

“You know how to put it in?” he asked her.

She smiled. “I think I can manage.”

She slid the mag into the gun and chambered one of the .45 caliber ACP rounds.

“I guess you do,” Pete said.

Greg walked back to them. “What were you guys doing out there, anyway?” he asked the teenagers.

“We were making a run for the gate,” Pete said.

“On foot?”

“In my Honda.”

“But the gate was closed,” Savannah said. “We, uh, forgot that you needed electricity to open it.”

“By the time we realized our mistake, they were all over us,” Pete said.

“‘They?’” Emily asked.

“There were three of them. The guy in the denim was just one. They came out of nowhere, like they’d been waiting at the gate all this time for someone to try to open it.”

“What happened to the other two?” Greg asked.

“It was nuts,” Pete said, shaking his head. “The two of us were trying to push the gate open, and here they come, racing out from three different buildings. I thought it was some kind of organized ambush, but two of them just changed directions at the last minute and went at each other. They were chopping each other up. Except for the one in the denim. He came after us.”

“Why didn’t you get back into the car?”

“I panicked and ran,” Savannah said, looking away embarrassingly.

“It’s not your fault,” Pete said. He put his hand over hers and squeezed it. “The guy in the denim,” he continued, “he was almost on top of us anyway. It would have taken too long to run back to the car, get in, and reverse outta there.”

Pete was putting on a good face, but Emily didn’t believe him. She recognized a young man trying to help his girlfriend out.

“Where’s your house?” Emily asked.

“211. On the other side.” Pete looked at her, then at Greg. “You guys live here?”

“She does,” Greg said. “I was just working here yesterday when everything happened.”

“What did happen?”

“We tried looking for news on the TV when everyone went crazy, but there wasn’t anything,” Savannah said.

“Is it happening everywhere?” Pete asked.

Emily shook her head. “We don’t know, but…”

“But what?”

“We think so. Whatever it is, it’s happening in other parts of the city, too.”

“What is ‘it?’” Pete asked.

“We don’t know,” Greg said. “That’s the problem.”

“Their eyes,” Savannah said. “Something’s wrong with their eyes. The man out there, and Pete’s neighbor when he attacked us. They were all bleeding out of their eyes.”

“Psychos,” Greg said.

“Psychos?”

“That’s what I call them.”

“Sounds appropriate, I guess,” Pete said.

“Where are your parents?” Emily asked the teenagers.

“Mine was at work,” Pete said.

“Mine, too,” Savannah said.

“Do you guys know what happened to these psychos? Why they became like that? Like Savannah said, they were bleeding out of their eyes. It’s like they became possessed or something.”

Or something, Emily thought.

She said, “You said your neighbor attacked you, Pete?”

The boy nodded. “Benny. He goes to the same school as us. He started banging on the door, but I saw his eyes through the peephole, and I didn’t open it. After that, he attacked Mrs. Bailer across the street. Killed her with his bare hands.”

“I almost threw up,” Savannah said.

“When that happened, we locked everything and hid in my room upstairs. We stayed there all day and all night. We saw the others outside, roaming around. Sometimes attacking one another. They were all like Benny and that other guy. Psychos.”

“And their eyes,” Savannah said again. Emily wasn’t sure if she was telling them what she’d seen or trying to convince herself. “Their eyes…”

Pete leaned over and put his arm around her shoulder, and the two teenagers smiled at each other. Or tried to, anyway.

Ah, true love.

Or very young love, anyway.

Emily hadn’t given Pete back his gun and was surprised the kid hadn’t asked for it. She held the pistol up now. “I’m going to keep this, okay?”

“Um, what?” Pete said.

“Your dad probably taught you how to shoot. Is that right?”

Pete nodded. “He did. How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess. Your dad taught you, but I was in the Army. After that, I was in private security. I spent half of your lifetime learning how to handle weapons and the other half using them in high-risk life and death situations. I think I should keep the gun.”

“Pete, she should probably keep the gun,” Savannah said.

“Yeah, you should probably keep the gun,” Pete said.

* * *

She was a new woman now that she had a weapon that could fire more than just nails over a short distance. Greg took over the nail gun while keeping the golf club holstered like a sword along his belt. Pete grabbed another one of Cole’s clubs while Savannah declined to arm herself.

Savannah was a slight girl, something Emily hadn’t noticed until the teenager was standing in front of her. The kid was a few inches shorter and pretty enough, and though she would never dream of saying it out loud, Savannah was probably out of Pete’s league. Then again, she had seen the boy handle himself out there, and even if he had failed to connect with seven of his eight shots, he had done enough to keep his girlfriend alive. He wasn’t Cole by any stretch, but then, most people weren’t.

She had woken up to the sound of Pete’s gunshots at around eight in the morning, and it was ten when they gathered inside her master bedroom on the second floor, around the window that faced the street. They looked out at Arrow Bay and its surroundings and listened to the pervading quiet. It was eerie, mostly because all four of them knew there were psychos like Don still out there.

Hiding. Waiting. Biding their time.

Crazy, but not stupid, she reminded herself. And patient.

That patience made them even more dangerous. Not that wilding maniacs weren’t dangerous, but ones that had the capacity to think and strategize were even more so.

She remembered the look on Don’s face—that smile (or was that a smirk?)—as he watched her from across the street. He had known exactly what he was doing: Staying away so she couldn’t hit him with the nail gun, the way she’d taken out Denim.

There was little life outside the window and even less along Dove Sand, the subdivision across the lake to the right of them. It was the same with Pebble Creek on the left, which was visible from another one of the bedrooms. Both subdivisions, like Arrow Bay, were private gated communities. People didn’t just pay for the serenity of living within a stone’s throw from a lake; they also enjoyed the benefit of being twenty miles from the city—and all of its problems—by highway.

“It’s like we’re the last people alive,” Savannah was saying quietly. “It can’t be, can it?”

“Can’t be,” Pete said. He shook his head, maybe to convince himself. “Can’t be.”

The young man had his arm around his girlfriend’s waist while Savannah rested her head on his shoulder.

“Should we make a run for it?” Greg asked. “The gate. I know there isn’t any power, but the two of us,” he added, looking at Pete, “could probably open it.” Then, turning to Emily, “And we have the gun for protection now.”

“It might work,” Pete said. “Both of us could definitely muscle that gate open. Do you guys have a car?”

“I have a van.”

“The white one outside?”

“That’s it.” He nodded at Emily. “Her car is closer. It’s in the garage.”

“That’s perfect,” Pete said. “I think we can make—”

“No,” Emily said, cutting him off.

“Why not?” Greg said. He sounded slightly annoyed.

Oh, who was she kidding? He sounded really annoyed.

Emily had a feeling she had lost Greg as a knight in shining armor. Maybe he’d seen how she’d handled herself and heard her bragging about her past in order to take the gun from Pete, that he didn’t think she needed his protection anymore. She didn’t believe Greg was wise to what she’d done to manipulate him since yesterday, but maybe she was not quite reading him correctly. After all, it’d been a while since she’d had to live and die by how she interpreted someone’s thoughts just using their facial cues.

“We know what we’re dealing with now, and you have the gun,” Greg said. “I saw you pop that guy with the nail gun. I bet you’re even better with a real gun.”

“That’s not the point,” Emily said.

“What is the point, then?”

“It’s not a good idea.”

“Why?”

“It just isn’t.”

“Tell me why.”

“You have to take my word for it, Greg.”

“No, I don’t. Tell me why.”

Pete and Savannah had gone quiet. They almost looked like children caught in the middle of two squabbling parents.

Emily sighed and took out the gun from behind her back and held it up. “The magazine has eight bullets. You saw what happened with the denim guy. Pete shot him—twice—and all it did was slow him down. He kept coming.” She looked over at Pete. “Am I right?”

Pete nodded. “Yeah. I saw the look on his face. He was more irritated than anything.”

“But they’re not indestructible,” Emily said, turning back to Greg. She softened her eyes and lowered her voice in an attempt to win him back. “They’re still human. They still bleed. A head shot would kill them, just as it would any living being. But it’s risky. I’m good with a gun, Greg, but I’m not that good. Movies and TV shows make it look like shooting someone in the head is easy, but it’s not. It’s really not. Especially when they’re moving as fast as those psychos can. There’s a reason even the guys in Special Forces go for chest shots first to put someone down, then finish them off with a headshot. The headshot is easier when they’re on the ground and not moving.”

Emily looked back out the window before continuing.

“Eight bullets. That’s all we have. And there are 200 houses in Arrow Bay alone. Let’s lowball it and say two per house. That’s over 400 people at least. That’s a lot of people, and we don’t have a lot of bullets.”

“But they’re killing each other, too,” Greg said. “Like with the mailman. And the old lady. Then there’s what Pete said happened at the gate. They’re not coordinating. They’re just slaughtering anyone who gets in their way. Even each other.”

“Emily’s right,” Savannah said. Then, when the men turned to look at her, “We tried to get out, but it’s too dangerous. It’s just too dangerous out there. If it’s safe in here, we should stay in here. Wait for the cops. Or whoever is out there. There has to be someone still out there, right? Right?”

Pete smiled at her. “As long as you’re with me, I’m cool with staying in here.”

The girl returned her boyfriend’s smile, as if the two of them were the only people in the room at the moment.

Emily gazed back out at the street, at the white van parked in front of her house. “Greg. Is your van’s doors locked?”

“No,” Greg said. “Why?”

“I don’t want to make a run for the gate and expose ourselves out in the open like that, too far from the house in case we need to retreat. But your van is a different story. It’s a lot closer.”

“What are you thinking?”

“We know they’re out there—my neighbor Don, in the house across the street, notably—but we also know there are others hiding, waiting to pounce on anyone that steps outside. I’m wondering if there’s anything in your van worth the risk?”

Greg thought about it for a moment. “I have extra nails for the nail gun, battery-powered lamps, and a generator in the back.”

“How big is the generator?”

“I could carry it by myself, but it also has rollers, so one person could definitely transport it into the house.”

“What else?”

“Flashlights, batteries, and a portable radio. If there’s nothing on TV, maybe there’s something on the radio. And oh, a spare battery pack for the nail gun, remember? If we’re going to be locked inside for a while, all those things might be worth bringing in here with us.”

“We should do it, then,” Pete said. “There’s four of us now.”

The three of them looked over at Emily as if to get her approval.

She nodded. “Let’s give it an hour and see what happens. There’s no point in rushing anything when we don’t have to.”

“And after that?” Greg asked.

“After that, we try to salvage what we can from the van.”

Chapter 9

“We should barricade the rest of the windows and reinforce the kitchen back door,” Emily said when they were walking back down to the first floor. “We got lucky last night when the psychos didn’t try to come in while we were in the backroom, but I don’t want to count on luck two nights in a row.”

“Too bad you don’t have security bars over the windows,” Greg said.

“That would defeat the purpose of paying all this money for a lake house all the way out here, Greg.”

He chuckled. “I guess so.” He thought for a moment, before adding, “We can use the tools from upstairs to remove the doors and hammer them over the windows. The nail gun will come in handy for that. Until the nails run out, anyway.”

“We sure we don’t want to make a run for the van for more supplies right now?” Pete asked.

“There are hammers upstairs, right?” Emily asked Greg.

He reached up and touched his temple, wincing a bit. “Yeah.”

“We’ll make do with what we have for now. Let’s not take any unnecessary risks until we absolutely have to. Help might come tomorrow or even later today. I want us to all be alive when that happens.”

That seemed to do the trick, and all three brightened up at the prospect of being rescued from this nightmare. Emily didn’t really believe it herself (especially the part about being rescued today), but that didn’t really matter. She needed them—even the girl Savannah—to concentrate on the here and now.

And right here and right now, she needed all three to keep her and her unborn baby alive. If Pete’s stories about the psychos attacking each other at the front gate and what she’d seen with her own eyes told her anything, it was that she didn’t have to outrun the psychos; she just needed to outrun the three people walking down the stairs with her.

That selfish thought should have made her uncomfortable, but it didn’t. Emily put a hand over her stomach—not so overtly that the others would notice—and understood what she needed to do.

Step one, after all, was to stay alive.

And she would, no matter the cost.

“Let’s get to work,” she said.

* * *

Someone had to stand watch in case one of the psychos decided to use the opportunity to come in. God knew they were making a lot of noise between the constant moving up and down the house and the banging of hammers and the thumping of the nail gun at work.

She had offered to help carry some of the doors down, but Greg would have none of it. In his mind, he was still protecting her. Or, more precisely, her unborn child. That kept her on sentry duty with the gun in her hand, so she didn’t argue nearly as strongly as she could have.

They removed the bookcase she had placed against one of the windows yesterday and used it to brace the front door to augment the deadbolt. Then they fastened doors they’d removed from the second floor over the windows, nailing them sideways to cover as much ground as possible but still leaving a half-foot crevice between each section in order to let light in and, at the same time, see out into the outside world. It wouldn’t have made much sense to seal themselves in the dark—literally and figuratively.

While Savannah and the men were upstairs taking apart her master bedroom’s doors, Emily sneaked into the garage to make sure the steel door was still closed and intact, then spent a few minutes inside the Audi to check on the gas. Afterward, she went into the backroom and came out with a case of bottled water Greg had put inside last night and tossed it into the trunk, along with some supplies and just enough nonperishable canned goods for a few days. She couldn’t take too much without the others noticing, especially Greg, who had collected those things himself yesterday.

She was back standing guard by the time they came down with her master bathroom’s doors. As she watched them cover up the dining room windows, Emily thought about what she had done—keeping the supplies in the Audi from them—or the fact she carried the key fob in her pocket at all times. Could she do it? Could she escape without them if she had to?

The answer came quickly.

Yes.

Yes, she could do it.

It wasn’t like she really knew these people. They were strangers to her. Besides, the Audi was a last-resort plan, something to consider when all else failed. She hoped she never had to use it, but if she had to, she would have no trouble falling back on it. Whenever she had any doubts about that, all she had to do was think about the fetus growing inside her. It was counting on her to save its life. She would do anything—anything—to keep Cole’s child safe.

“You okay?” Savannah was asking her.

Emily smiled at the girl. She hadn’t realized she had spaced out and that the teenager had noticed. “Yes. Why?”

“You look like you’re a thousand miles away.”

“I was thinking about Cole.”

“Your husband, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

“He is.”

The girl gave her a weak smile, as if to say, “Of course he is, even though we both know he’s probably already dead.”

The teenager said, “What about the boat?”

“What about it?”

“Should we think about taking it?”

“Where would we go?” Pete asked. He was holding the door in place as Greg hammered the nails into the wall. The nail gun had, predictably, run dry one door ago.

“What do you mean?” Savannah said.

“Think about it, babe. This thing—whatever it is—it’s not just limited to Arrow Bay. It’s happening everywhere. Bear Lake is landlocked. It’s not like we can boat into the ocean or somewhere safe from these psychos. We’d still have to come back ashore.”

“I didn’t think of that.”

“Pete’s right,” Emily said. “Right now, staying still until help arrives is the smartest thing we can do.”

“This place is going to be like Fort Knox by the time we’re done,” Greg said. He tried pulling at the doors fastened over the windows, but they barely budged. “There’s just the kitchen back door left. What about the garage?”

“It’s secured.”

“What about the door connecting it?” Savannah asked.

“We can put a bar over it just to be safe,” Greg said.

Emily thought about her secret plan, but saying no would not have made sense. She said instead, “We should do that, but don’t make it too difficult to open in case we need to gain access to the garage in a hurry. The steel door should be enough to keep someone out. From what I’ve seen, these psychos are too clever to stand out there trying to bash down the garage door. That would expose them to the other psychos.”

Greg ended up hammering a heavy piece of two-by-four over the garage door. He had nailed one end into the wall, which still allowed the wooden slab to swing up and down onto a latch he had drilled on the other side of the frame. It was a crude extra lock, but Emily had seen how cunning the psychos outside could be and how they avoided situations where they would become the victims.

It was almost three in the afternoon by the time they finished covering all the vulnerable entry points into the house. The interior had become much darker as a result, and Emily was already starting to feel slightly suffocated. At least they continued to have ventilation and the weather outside was cool enough that they weren’t all swimming in their own sweat.

Later, they sat in the dining room and ate all the perishable food that Greg hadn’t looted from the kitchen.

“Eat everything,” Emily said. “They’re going to go bad soon. Might as well get everything we can out of them now.”

Not that they needed her encouragement after the hard labor of the past few hours. Pete and Greg wolfed down everything Emily put in front of them, while she and Savannah looked on with amusement.

After a few minutes of nothing but the sound of chewing and cans opening and water guzzling, Emily asked, “What about your parents, Pete?”

The young man was between bites of a turkey sandwich, with a large helping of mayonnaise (just the way Cole liked his, too). The teenager didn’t answer right away, but eventually said, “I don’t know. They both worked in the city. I don’t know if they survived this or where they are right now if they did. I tried calling them on the phone, but they’re not working.”

“No one’s phones are working,” Greg said. “Just like the power grid. Everything’s down.”

“That’s crazy, right?”

Not if you want to bring an enemy to his knees before finishing him off, Emily thought. If that’s the plan, then it’s goddamn standard operating procedure.

She said to Savannah instead, “What about your folks?”

“I don’t know,” Savannah said. “I couldn’t reach them on the phone, either. You think they’re dead?”

“Let’s try to stay positive,” Emily said. “Look at us. There’s nothing special about us, but we made it through yesterday’s madness. A housewife, a contractor, and two high school kids.”

“She’s right,” Greg said. “Let’s concentrate on the good. We’re all still alive, so let’s stay that way.”

“Definitely,” Pete said, nodding.

“Yes,” Savannah said. “If we stick together, trust each other, we can get through this.” She looked over at Emily. “Right?”

Emily smiled back at her. “That’s right. We just have to stick together and trust one another.”

* * *

“You saw that?” Greg asked.

She nodded. “Yes.”

“What was that?”

“Don Taylor. My neighbor. He’s been camped out in Mrs. Landry’s house across the street since yesterday.”

They were on the second floor again, looking down at the quiet street. It was quiet down there. Too damn quiet.

“Who’s Mrs. Landry?” Greg asked.

He stood across the window from her. They had covered up all the entry points on the first floor but hadn’t done the same to the ones on the second. They didn’t have to, unless the psychos could crawl up walls.

Shit. I hope they can’t crawl up walls…

The lack of boards over the second-floor windows made it ideal to spy on the world outside without being seen. The teenagers were downstairs finishing off the last of the food.

“The dead fat lady in my front yard,” Emily said.

“Oh. I was wondering who that was.”

“Don did that. After she stabbed him in the back.”

“You mean literally?”

“Yes.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“So he’s running around out there with a knife wound?”

“At least a knife wound.”

“I still remember that guy Pete shot. Two bullets in him, and he still kept coming. And it took you putting nearly the entire nail gun into him to stop him.”

Emily didn’t answer him. She was too busy staring at Mrs. Landry’s house, waiting for Don to show himself after having peeked out from behind the living room window earlier. But he didn’t. For some reason—maybe because he thought he’d been spotted—he remained hidden.

I know you’re out there, Don.

“What do you think he’s doing in there?” Greg was asking her. “Your neighbor?”

“Waiting,” Emily said. “He’s waiting…”

Chapter 10

Single pistol shots, followed by the unmistakable blasts of not one, but two shotguns firing almost simultaneously.

I could use one of those shotguns, Emily thought.

Whoever had landed at the southern tip of Arrow Bay had come well-armed. She counted a dozen shots and half a dozen shotgun blasts in the span of twenty minutes since the first signs of activity.

After that, there was nothing.

Silence.

She peered out the second-floor window of her master bedroom and quickly spotted a figure across the street hiding behind a two-story white house. It was Don Taylor again, gardening hoe in hand, sticking his head out into the open and looking south toward the source of the gunfire. Instead of running headfirst into whoever was causing the chaos, Don glanced up and down the street before slinking back into the shadows.

Insane and murderous, but not stupid, Emily thought.

She waited at the window and watched, listening for more sounds of gunfire. None came. Whoever had let loose hadn’t fired again, either because they’d run out of ammo or they didn’t have to.

Emily was leaning toward the latter, because the psychos were smart. Too smart to take on men with guns.

It took a while—almost another twenty minutes—before a figure appeared, walking down the street to her right. He was walking calmly, as if on a Sunday stroll in the park. Maybe his lack of concern had something to do with the shotgun he was cradling or the gun belt he was wearing. The sun glinted off some kind of star on his chest, and he was wearing the tan colors of a Sheriff’s deputy uniform.

And he wasn’t alone.

Two more men appeared from behind him, rushing forward until they flanked the first. They were spread out across the street, all three wearing uniforms, and all were very well-armed. The other two were carrying handguns at the moment but they had identical pump-action shotguns slung over their backs, along with bulging duffel bags stuffed with, Emily guessed, more weapons and ammo.

I could use one of those bags.

They waltzed up the street, looking alert and ready for anything. The fact that they had shot their way up the street didn’t sit well with her. They had to know they were drawing attention to themselves. Unnecessarily so. That told her they were reckless, and Emily didn’t like reckless men.

She was leaning toward staying put and not giving herself away to the approaching trio when she glimpsed movement from underneath her.

Emily looked down.

Greg.

Shit.

The big contractor was running down the driveway, waving to the trio as they neared her house.

Goddammit, Greg.

She didn’t completely blame the contractor, though. Greg no doubt saw uniforms as a sign of authority, and after everything they had been through, this was the rescue he’d been waiting for.

She hurried downstairs, using the time between the master bedroom and the stairs to switch the 1911 from her front waistband to the back, then throwing her shirt over it. There was a noticeable bulge that was easy to spot, so she’d just have to make sure every pair of eyes that didn’t already know about the gun stayed on her front.

“Cops,” Pete said as soon as she came downstairs.

She nodded. “I saw them.”

“Greg went out to talk to them. The psychos aren’t coming out. I think they know the cops have guns.”

“They’re not stupid; they won’t come into the open if they don’t have the advantage.”

“Looks that way.”

“This is it, right? This is the help we’ve been waiting for?” Savannah asked. She was camped out at the dining room window, watching Greg outside.

Maybe, Emily thought, but didn’t say it.

She walked to the door and pulled another golf club out of the bag instead. Greg had already removed the bookcase from the door and it was leaning against the wall.

“Where’s the gun?” Pete asked.

“I still have it,” she said. “For now, until we can trust them, let’s keep that to ourselves, okay?”

The teenagers exchanged a confused glance. Emily didn’t have time to persuade them and hoped they kept their mouths shut as she stepped outside.

Greg was in the street looking alertly around him while he talked to the first cop she had spotted. The other two deputies stood guard in the background. The sun glinted off the barrels of their shotguns, and Emily thought again, Damn, I could definitely use one of those.

Emily thought she caught a glimpse of Don Taylor directly across the street, peering out from behind Mrs. Landry’s living room curtains before quickly disappearing back into the darkness of his former victim’s home.

“Emily,” Greg said, looking over as she approached them. “This is Troyer. And that’s Chrisman and Barton. They came from the police station nearby.”

Troyer nodded at her. He was tall and muscular, with short blond hair. Handsome enough, though these days she measured everyone against Cole, and Troyer came sorely lacking in that respect. Most women might disagree, but they hadn’t been spoiled by Cole like she had.

“You folks managed to survive here the last two days without firearms?” Troyer asked.

Before Greg could answer, Emily said, “Yes.” She showed him her golf club. “We’ve been getting by.”

“We thought we heard shooting earlier,” the one named Barton said. He was the shortest of the three, with a haircut that was dangerously close to being a buzz cut. Early forties, which made him about ten years older than Troyer and even older than the third man, Chrisman.

“Wasn’t us,” Emily said. Before they could ask her more questions, she said, “Do you guys know what’s happening out there?”

“We’re trying to figure that out ourselves,” Troyer said. He glanced over at Mrs. Landry’s fly-covered body just beyond the windowsill to the dead mailman up the street. “Let’s get inside before some of them get brave and make a run for us.”

She nodded and stepped aside, but didn’t turn her back to them. This way, she was keeping them from seeing the slight bulge of the 1911 behind her waist. They walked past her. First Greg and Troyer (with Greg giving her a curious look), then Barton.

And finally, the last man, Chrisman. He was shorter than Troyer but taller than Barton, and wider than both of them. He had shaggy brown hair and dark eyes that lingered on her just a little bit too long for comfort.

“Come on, ma’am, dangerous out here,” he said.

She smiled, but lingered just a little bit to let him past. “Right behind you.”

She followed them into the house, Pete quickly closing and locking the door after them. Then, with Greg’s help, the two men lifted and settled the bookcase back over the door.

The three cops lingered in the living room, glancing around them to get a lay of the land. Quickly, Chrisman and Barton’s eyes found Savannah, and while Barton moved his eyes away, Chrisman, as he had outside earlier with Emily, kept his just a bit too long on the teenage girl.

Savannah knew it, too, and she walked over to where Pete stood and slipped her hands around his arm. Pete smiled at her. Emily wondered if the boy had noticed the way the cops—especially Chrisman—were looking at his girlfriend just a few seconds ago.

“You guys been here since yesterday?” Troyer was asking. Of the three, he was obviously in charge, and she recognized intelligence behind his blue eyes. He was one of those people, like Cole, who saw everything with just a glance.

Be careful around him. Be real careful.

“Since yesterday,” Greg said. “I was working on a room upstairs with my partner when everything happened.”

“Where’s he now?”

“I had to kill him.”

“He was infected?” Barton asked.

Greg nodded. “You know about that?”

“Everyone knows about that.”

“What else do you guys know about what’s happening out there?”

“You probably know as much as we do,” Troyer said. He turned his attention to Emily. “This your house, ma’am?”

“Yes,” Emily said.

“Where’s your husband?”

“He’s making his way home right now.”

“You mean he’s still out there?” Barton asked.

“That’s right.”

“And he’s still alive?”

“Yes.”

“You sure about that?”

“Very.”

“I see,” he said, even though she didn’t believe him for a second.

Barton and Troyer exchanged a look, but neither man said anything.

“You guys know how it happened?” Pete was asking the deputies.

“It happened too fast,” Barton said. “In the blink of an eye. Before we knew it, everything was crazy. People killing each other, even deputies. There was no rhyme or reason to it. Like you folks, we’ve been trying to figure it out and coming up with nada.”

“We were hoping you’d have some answers,” Greg said.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

Emily had sat down at one of the dining room tables, in a spot that allowed her to see everyone standing in front of her. Troyer was to the left with Greg, and Barton and Chrisman in the middle, with Pete and Savannah to her right. As the conversation continued, Chrisman had wandered over to the living room window and was glancing out at the street beyond.

Or he was pretending to.

When the cop didn’t think anyone was watching, Chrisman sneaked a look over at Savannah, still clinging to Pete’s arm. Emily didn’t like the way he was looking at the girl. She didn’t like it one bit.

“So where is everyone?” Greg was asking Barton and Troyer.

“Everyone?” Troyer said.

“The state. Federal government. Everyone.”

Barton shrugged. “I don’t know. Like I said, things went bad really fast. I don’t think anyone was prepared for it. I don’t even know if there’s still a state government out there, never mind federal.”

“Is that possible?” Pete asked.

“I don’t know, kid. I just don’t know.”

“That’s the problem,” Troyer said. “We don’t know anything. I’m not sure anyone does.”

“All we’ve been doing is staying alive,” Barton said. “The infected ones, they’re everywhere. I’m almost sure there’s more of them than there are of us at the moment.”

“You guys have any ideas why you weren’t affected?” Greg asked.

“No idea. You?”

“None.”

“Well, shit. All we know is that they’re dangerous.”

“We call them psychos.”

“How’s that?” Barton said.

“Psychos. That’s what we call them.”

Troyer smiled. “Sounds like a good a name as any, I suppose. They act pretty damn psychotic, that’s for sure.”

“Where did you come from?” Emily asked them.

“Ma’am?” Barton said, like it was the strangest question he had ever heard. Or maybe he just didn’t expect her to ask it.

“Did you drive in here?”

“No, ma’am. We boated here from Pebble Creek. Hoping to find something more than what we found there.”

“What did you find in Pebble Creek?” Greg asked.

Barton and Troyer exchanged a look.

“What?” Greg said.

“Let’s just say you folks got it good,” Troyer said. “It’s a bloodbath over there. Probably in the other subdivisions, too, we don’t know.”

“So it’s happening everywhere,” Pete said.

“Just about, kid,” Barton said.

“We know the phone’s down, and so’s the TV,” Greg said. “What about the radios? Were you able to reach anyone on the radios?”

“Nada,” Troyer said. He sighed and shook his head. “It’s silent out there, folks. If there’s even still a U.S. government, we ain’t hearing a peep from them. And we tried. We tried all day yesterday and this morning.”

“How is that possible?” Savannah asked. She sounded on the verge of crying.

“I don’t know what’s possible or not anymore, missy,” Barton said. “It just is. It just is…”

Chapter 11

“Why didn’t you want to tell them about the gun?” Greg asked when they were collecting water bottles from the backroom to share with the others.

She didn’t answer him until she was sure there was no one looking in through the open door behind them. “Just in case, Greg.”

“Just in case of what, Emily? They’re cops.”

“I know that. That doesn’t mean we can trust them.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Haven’t you seen what’s been happening out there? People aren’t exactly who they used to be these days. Not our neighbors, not even our business partners. Or our friends.” She stopped short of just saying Barnes’s name, but it seemed enough to make her point. “This isn’t the time to be trusting people we hardly know.”

“We hardly know each other, too.”

“We have two days. And before that, nearly a week. We’ve just known them for just one hour.”

“Emily, they don’t have bloodshot eyes. They’re fine.”

“They’re just not infected. There’s a big difference between that and being ‘fine.’”

He shook his head, clearly frustrated with her. “You need to trust someone sometime, Emily.”

“I am trusting someone. I’m trusting you, and Pete and Savannah. But I’m not going to put my baby’s life into the hands of three strangers who think it’s perfectly fine to show up and start shooting up the neighborhood and calling attention to themselves.”

That made Greg pause for a moment. Apparently, he hadn’t considered that part.

Finally, he said, “And don’t mention the baby to them, right?”

“Yeah. Let’s keep that to ourselves, too.”

“I’m not comfortable with this, Emily. If this thing is as widespread as we think it is, we might really need these guys.”

I’d rather have their guns, she thought.

“Look,” she said, picking up two water bottles and placing them in his arms along with the four he was already cradling, “if I’m wrong about them, and they’re good guys, then there’s no harm. We’ll have a laugh about it later. But if I’m even a little bit right, don’t you think we should have something to protect ourselves from them besides golf clubs?”

He sighed. “Maybe you’re right. I guess I’m just used to trusting people.”

I’m not, she wanted to say but didn’t.

Instead, she said, “You have to trust me on this, Greg. Let’s just stay cautious. Okay?”

“Just in case?”

She nodded. “Just in case.” Then, “Now come on, before they wonder why it’s taking us so long to grab some water bottles.”

She walked past him and heard Greg say from behind her, “I really hope you’re wrong about them.”

“Yeah, me too,” she said.

* * *

While they were in the backroom, the deputies had decided to go out to Greg’s van and bring in the generator, flashlights, and extra batteries Greg had mentioned earlier. They already had a lot of their own supplies in the duffel bags, and combined with their guns, didn’t exactly need the extra battery pack for the nail gun or the clips for it, so they left those behind.

The cops didn’t say so, but Emily knew they had extra weapons inside their bags. She was 100 percent certain Troyer was carrying at least a rifle in his bag by the way the barrel was jutting against one end, but neither he nor the other two offered to show them the contents, and she didn’t ask to see them.

For one, she wasn’t entirely sure what would happen if she brought up the topic. One possibility was that things might deteriorate. Fast. Right now, the trio seemed content to play nice and as long as she still had access to the SIG Sauer behind her back, Emily was willing to go along with it.

Besides, she didn’t like the odds. Three against one was not her idea of a fair fight. She had the 1911, but they had their own pistols, plus secondary weapons. In a gunfight, she’d lose. Badly. The most she could hope for was to take out two of them before the third one got her.

And that wasn’t acceptable.

Not even a little bit.

Emily had at least one ally in Savannah, which surprised her. The teenager waited until the men—all five of them—went outside to raid Greg’s van before speaking up. The problem was that the deputies took their bags with them, which all but confirmed to Emily that there was more than just ammo inside.

“I don’t trust them,” the girl said when the men were all gone and it was just the two of them in the house.

Emily looked over at the teenager, just barely able to hide her surprise. “Why?”

“The big one? Chrisman? He keeps looking at me. He doesn’t think I notice, but I do.”

She’d underestimated Savannah. The girl was a lot more perceptive than Emily had given her credit for. Certainly, a lot more than Pete, who hadn’t caught any of Chrisman’s not-so-subtle leering.

They stood at the dining room window, looking out at the men. Barton and Troyer were standing guard with their shotguns on opposite sides of the van, while Chrisman, Greg, and Pete grabbed supplies out of the vehicle.

“Am I just being paranoid?” Savannah asked.

“No,” Emily said.

“You saw him, too?” she asked, sounding almost hopeful.

“Yes. He’s not nearly as good at hiding it as he thinks he is.”

“Thank God. I thought for a moment it might have just been me.”

“It’s not.”

“So what should we do? I haven’t even told Pete.”

“Don’t tell him.”

“Why?”

“Pete can’t do anything about it. If he brings it up, it might make things worse. For now, we’ll play along with them.”

“What if Chrisman tries something?”

“Then I’ll kill him,” Emily said, surprised that the proclamation came out so frankly. And here she thought she was retired. Maybe she always knew that was a lie, too.

Savannah didn’t say anything, though she did stare at Emily for a few more seconds before turning back to the window. Emily couldn’t tell if the teenager believed her or not, but if the girl was half as smart as Emily thought she was, she probably did.

“Savannah,” Emily said.

“Yes?”

“Whatever happens, stay close to Pete.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it. At all times. Don’t stray.”

“I understand.” Then, looking over at Emily, “Are you really good with that gun?”

“Did I tell you how I met my husband?”

“No.”

“Cole got himself into trouble overseas and needed protection. He hired my company, and I ended up as his bodyguard.”

“You were his bodyguard?” the girl said, sounding not-so-slightly incredulous.

Emily smiled. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“It’s just that, well, you’re a woman.”

“Last time I checked, that’s true.”

“I’m sorry. I guess I just never pictured female bodyguards. So, what happened then?”

“Long story short, I saved his life.”

“How?”

“People wanted to hurt him, but I hurt them first.”

“Did you have to use a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” the girl said.

“Stick to Pete,” Emily said. “I’ll handle the rest.”

* * *

Greg and Barton carried the generator into the house instead of using the wheels and headed straight into the backroom. Chrisman followed with the spare flashlights and batteries, while Pete and Troyer trailed behind him, still outside on the walkway. No one seemed to be in much of a hurry, and she guessed they didn’t have to considering the firepower. The psychos, however many of them were out there, had stayed away, including Don.

Emily was holding the door open, which allowed her to stand to the side with her front presented to the deputies. The 1911 was her ace in the hole. It wasn’t that she wanted to have to use it, but if she did… It was better to have it and not need it than to not have it when she needed it.

A shotgun blast from outside the front yard!

Boom!

She was turning to look, her right hand instinctively reaching for the gun hidden behind her back, when there was a second shot.

Boom!

Outside, Pete was sprawled on the driveway, his hands thrown over the back of his head while a man in a white suit and tie lay dead on the curb just beyond her yard. There was a nice coat of blood over the front of the man’s shirt.

Troyer was racking his shotgun, a spent shell flickering through the air before vanishing into the tall grass. The cop moved toward the dead man and stuck his boot under the body, before turning him over onto his back. Emily didn’t need to get any closer to see that the man was missing a large chunk of his right shoulder and most of the top of his head, though he still had enough of a face for her to see the blood-smeared eyes. A metal rod the size of a baseball bat was rolling down the street, before settling against the front tire of Greg’s van.

“What happened?” Emily asked as she helped Pete up from the driveway. She’d wisely not pulled her own gun and exposed it.

“He came out of nowhere,” Pete said, brushing his clothes. He didn’t look hurt, though it was a little hard to tell since he had fresh scrapes and cuts on his forehead, chin, and elbows. “If Troyer hadn’t seen him first, he’d have driven that rod right through me. What the hell is that, anyway?”

Troyer walked over and, after scanning the streets for new threats, picked up the pole. “Not a clue. He’s been putting it to use, though. It’s all dented, and there’s dried blood all over it.”

The cop tossed the pole and backtracked up the driveway toward them. Emily took note of how cautious he was, how his eyes never stayed at one spot for very long. The pump-action remained in front of him, ready for action.

He definitely knows how to use that thing, all right.

Savannah had come out of the house and helped Pete collect the boxes of supplies, including duct tape and a portable radio, before the teens vanished back inside.

Emily waited outside for Troyer to reach her. “Nice shooting.”

“Meh,” he said, flashing her a tad-too-conceited grin. “I should have tagged him with the first one. Had to waste a second shell. I guess I’m a little rusty.”

“Guess so.”

“Come on, before another one of them decides to take a run at us.”

“You saw more?”

“Three, at least. They’re hiding, though. Smart bastards.”

“Yeah. They’re that, all right.”

They walked the short distance into the house. She didn’t feel better until she had closed the door and quickly locked it. They hadn’t bothered to reinforce the door again, mostly because the deputies hadn’t felt the need to. They were that overconfident, and maybe they had every right to be, given their weapons.

“I noticed something, though,” Troyer was saying.

“What’s that?” Emily said.

“I haven’t seen them use guns yet.”

“Guns?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hard not to notice, when you’ve been out there as long as we have.”

Emily stared at him for a moment.

“What?” Troyer said. “Something I said?”

She shook her head. “It never occurred to me that I haven’t seen one of them use a gun. I know guns aren’t lying around everywhere, but you’d think at least one of them would get his hands on one, right? It would make killing easier. But instead, they’re running around with knives or something else.”

“It’s almost like it’s personal for them,” Troyer said.

“Personal?”

“Up close and personal. Like they want to enjoy it. Feel it.”

Emily continued to watch the deputy closely. He wasn’t really imposing, even though he was much taller than her and not exactly skinny underneath his tan uniform. He didn’t have the bulk of Chrisman or Barton, but there was something about him that made it pretty obvious he was the alpha of the trio. You could always tell without trying when one was around.

“What?” Troyer said. “You’re staring again.” He grinned. “I have food stuck in my teeth?”

“No.” She forced a smile. “It’s just that, we never thought about that. The gun thing.”

Troyer chuckled. “Well, folks say I can be pretty insightful.”

Barton had reemerged from the backroom and walked over to them. “Trouble?” he asked Troyer.

“Oh, now you bother asking?” Troyer said. “Kinda late there with the concern, don’t you think? If there’d been real trouble, the two of us would have been Swiss cheese by now.”

Barton snorted. “You would have called if you needed help. So, did you?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“So, I was right.”

“This time.”

“All the time.”

“In your dreams.”

The older man snorted, then looked over at her. “Emily, right?”

“Yes,” she said.

“This your place?”

“Uh huh.”

“Not too shabby, now that I’ve gotten a good look around.”

“Must have cost a pretty penny,” Troyer said.

She nodded. “It did.”

“Price of real estate notwithstanding, do you know how many homes are in Arrow Bay?” Barton asked.

“Two hundred. Why?”

“We killed six of them when we docked earlier, coming from Pebble Creek.” Then, to Troyer, “How many showed themselves this time?”

“Just the one,” Troyer said.

“I heard two shots.”

“I tagged him in the shoulder with the first and finished him off with the second.”

“Getting rusty.”

“Blow me.”

Emily couldn’t tell if they were bantering for her benefit or if this was just a thing with them, but she did conclude they were used to one another. That kind of easy back-and-forth contempt only came with familiarity.

“So, seven dead psychos so far,” Barton was saying. “You’d think there’d be more.”

“There are more,” Emily said. She walked over to the window and pulled the curtains side. “The house across from us belongs to the Landrys. That woman in my front yard.”

“The fat one?” Barton asked.

“That’s her. I don’t know what happened to Mr. Landry, but I’ve seen someone else moving around in the place. It’s another one of them.”

“He’s waiting to strike,” Barton said.

“Exactly,” Emily said. “He’s in there now, watching us.”

“We saw that. Back at Pebble Creek. They’re clever little buggers. We’d all be in real trouble if they started using guns or teaming up.”

“Good thing they’re not,” Troyer said. “Yet.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Barton said. Then, to Emily, “You only saw one of them in there?”

“I think so,” she said.

“Has to just be one,” Troyer said. “They’re lone wolves, just as liable to murder each other as one of us.”

“So he’s all alone in there,” Barton said, resting one hand on the butt of his holstered pistol. “Sounds like a problem we can take care of right here and right now.”

“He killed the mailman outside,” Emily said. “Then Mrs. Landry. He’s dangerous. Maybe we should just leave him alone.”

“Why?”

“He’s really dangerous. Maybe too dangerous.”

“We’ll see about that,” Barton said.

Men. As predictable as snow in the Alps, Emily thought.

Troyer was grinning at Emily as if he knew exactly what she was doing.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing,” he said. The deputy walked to the door with Barton. “Be right back. Maybe put something hot on the stove for us in the meantime.”

“Power’s down,” Emily said. Then, smiling back at him, “But I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter 12

When the deputies decided to go kill Don, they left their duffel bags behind in the backroom. It was the opportunity Emily had been waiting for, that she was hoping for. She knew there were guns in there. Another shotgun, maybe. Or if she were really lucky, a rifle. Sheriff’s deputies had been issued military-grade M4s for years now, and there was a very good chance there might be one inside one of the three bags.

The problem was that Troyer and Barton also left Chrisman behind.

She watched the two deputies approach Mrs. Landry’s house across the street now. They certainly looked comfortable in their uniforms and were even moving in a way that made her believe they had law-enforcement training. Troyer was slightly ahead, shotgun swinging left, front, and right, while Barton kept pace behind him, protecting his six by watching the streets and sidewalks. There was no question they’d handled weapons before.

“Why are they wasting time killing your neighbor?” Greg asked as he slid against the other side of the dining room window from her and looked out the crevice between the two bathroom doors. “Shouldn’t we be trying to conserve as much ammo as possible in case this thing drags on?”

If this thing drags on, we’re already in trouble, Greg, she thought but kept to herself.

Emily said, “Maybe they just don’t want Don sneaking up on them later.”

“You think so?”

“Probably.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

She shrugged. “They have guns. I wouldn’t worry too much about them.” Looking at the dead man in the suit and tie that Troyer had shot earlier, she added, “As fast and crazy as these psychos are, they’re not faster than a bullet, or bulletproof.”

The cops had reached the front door, and Troyer tried opening it before glancing back and shaking his head at Barton. Locked.

“I guess your neighbor doesn’t want people barging in on him unannounced,” Greg said.

“Guess not,” Emily said.

The two deputies took a step back, before Troyer delivered a solid kick to the spot right over the doorknob and the door swung violently open. It must have been dark inside, because Troyer turned on the tactical flashlight fastened underneath his weapon’s barrel before taking the first step forward. Barton eyed the streets one last time, then turned, flicked on his own shotgun’s flashlight, and followed Troyer inside.

“You still don’t think they’re cops?” Greg asked.

“I don’t know,” Emily said. “They look and move like cops.”

“Probably because they are.”

“Maybe. I just know that even if they are law-enforcement, it doesn’t mean we can completely trust them.” She glanced back to make sure Chrisman hadn’t come out of the backroom where he was babysitting the duffel bags to catch her talking. “Depending on how long this emergency lasts, being a cop won’t mean very much.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Cops maintain the law, Greg. If there are no more laws to uphold, they just become people with guns.”

He didn’t say anything, even though she could tell from his reaction that he hadn’t considered that. Instead, the big man looked back out the window. She didn’t know if she had convinced him, not that it really mattered. She just needed Greg somewhere in the middle. He was a good man, she could tell that right away; when push came to shove, he would always choose the two-month-pregnant woman. (Even if she happened to be just six weeks, but who was counting?)

Emily glanced up and down the street to see if anyone had noticed the two deputies moving between houses. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched and hadn’t been able to since all of this began.

They were out there. Her neighbors. People she knew and those she hadn’t met yet, like Pete and Savannah.

They were out there.

Waiting. Biding their time.

Come out, come out, wherever you are.

Of course, no one came out, and she didn’t expect them to. The dumb ones died two days ago at the start of all this, leaving just the smart ones. Though maybe smart wasn’t the right word. Maybe pure survival instinct was more appropriate.

Gunshots from across the street.

Shotgun blasts.

“Looks like they found your neighbor,” Greg said. “What was his name again?”

“Don,” she said. “Don Taylor.”

“You knew him well?”

“He was one of the first people to welcome Cole and me to the neighborhood.”

“What did he do?”

“CPA. But he’s unemployed right now.”

Another boom! from a shotgun.

“He’s a goner, all right,” Greg said.

“Maybe,” Emily said.

“You think he can take on two guys with shotguns?”

“Probably not.”

“Definitely not.”

We’ll see about that, Emily thought.

She was focused on Mrs. Landry’s house, hoping to get a look at what was happening, when there was a scream.

Except it had come from behind them—from the back of the house.

They both spun around, Greg looking just as shocked as she was.

“Chrisman,” Emily said almost breathlessly. Then, even more urgently, “And Pete and Savannah!”

She hadn’t gotten Savannah’s name out before she was racing across the living room and toward the back hallway.

“Emily, wait!” Greg shouted behind her, but she was already too far gone to stop now.

And she didn’t want to anyway because she heard another scream. It was made by the same person as the last time.

Savannah.

Emily reached back and drew the 1911 as she reached the open door. They had left the backroom door open, which was why she’d been able to hear Savannah’s screams so easily.

“Emily!” Greg shouted behind her again. “Wait, goddammit. Wait!”

Like last time, she ignored him and burst through the door and into the backroom.

In the blink of an eye, she saw:

Chrisman, both hands gripping Pete’s head from behind, smashing the teenager into the brick wall. The boy was leaving a bloody stain that grew bigger with every crunching impact. Savannah was behind them, screaming uncontrollably as if the sound of her voice could stop Chrisman from killing her boyfriend.

If the cop noticed Savannah behind him, screaming like a madwoman, it didn’t do anything to stop him. The deputy seemed completely engrossed in Pete, or what was left of the boy. There wasn’t very much, because it looked as if Chrisman had been slamming poor Pete’s head into the wall for a while now. There were thick chunks of flesh and bone dripping to the floor where there was already a thick puddle.

“Hey, motherfucker!” Emily shouted.

Chrisman stopped momentarily—maybe it was the motherfucker that Emily had added, hoping it would get his attention since even Savannah’s continued screams didn’t seem to be doing the trick—and turned around.

Well, that worked.

Chrisman’s pupils were wide open, but there weren’t the strands of blood splintering from the corners of his eyes like fingers that she thought she’d find. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Chrisman. At least, nothing like what had happened to Don or the others.

So why the hell was Chrisman bashing Pete’s head into the wall?

Chrisman let go of the boy, who collapsed to the floor with a resounding thump and stayed down. He couldn’t have gotten up if he wanted to.

From behind her, Greg’s voice: “What the fuck!”

Chrisman glared at her. “What are you doing back here? You’re not supposed to be back here.” Then, for the first time, his eyes snapped to the gun in her hand. “Where’d you get that?”

Emily ignored him and said, “Savannah! Step away from him!”

The girl did, running away—

—even as Chrisman went for his gun.

The man might have appeared absolutely insane to her at the moment—though a different kind of insanity; not the psycho type—but he was smart enough to reach for his holstered pistol instead of spending the extra few seconds it would have taken to unsling his shotgun.

Not that it did him any good.

Emily stepped toward him and squeezed the trigger. The first 9mm round hit Chrisman in the shoulder, and his body twisted slightly. It didn’t stop him from continuing to reach for his gun, though, and he’d gotten his fingers around the grip when Emily shot him again—two more times in the chest.

Chrisman dropped to his knees, and for a moment Emily thought he might try to get back up. It sure as hell didn’t look as if three bullets were enough to put him down, and she was ready to spend a fourth one to finish the job.

But she didn’t have to, because Chrisman slumped forward to the floor on his chest and face.

Emily hurried over to Pete, but she didn’t bother to check the boy’s vitals. The way he lay on the carpet, as still as can be, told her all she needed to know. The widening pool of blood underneath him was also a big hint.

“Is he dead?” Greg asked behind her.

Emily wasn’t sure who the he Greg was referring to, but she guessed it didn’t matter. Whether it was Chrisman or Pete, the answer was the same: Yes.

She looked over at Savannah, standing against one of the walls. Her hands were plastered over her mouth, tears spilling out of her eyes as she stared across the room at Pete. She must have known that her boyfriend was dead, too, because at that moment Emily didn’t think anything could pry her away from the wall.

Greg rushed over to the girl and put his hand on her shoulder. She spun and turned into his chest, surprising him. Greg quickly got over it and wrapped both arms around her as she sobbed against him.

The contractor stared at Chrisman’s body before looking over at Emily. “The others will be back soon. What are we going to tell them?”

“The truth,” Emily said.

“The truth?”

She nodded. “That he turned and killed Pete. I had to shoot him in order to stop him.”

“But he didn’t turn. We saw his eyes. They weren’t bloodshot.”

“Barton and Troyer don’t know that.”

“You mean we’re going to lie?”

“What’s the other alternative?”

“Tell them the truth. He attacked Pete.” Greg pried Savannah off him just enough to look her in the eyes. “What happened? Why did he attack Pete?”

Savannah couldn’t stop crying, not that Emily blamed her. She had just seen her boyfriend’s head get repeatedly smashed into the wall. Hell, there were still chunks of Pete’s flesh and hair matted to the blood dripping from that exact spot now.

“Savannah,” Greg said, lowering his voice to a soothing degree. “What happened? Tell us what happened?”

“He attacked me,” Savannah finally said.

“Who?”

She glanced back at Chrisman’s still and lifeless body.

Emily was pretty sure Greg was going to ask, “Why did he do that?” but he didn’t—or stopped himself in time. Because the answer to his question was a no-brainer. Why would Chrisman have attacked Savannah, forcing Pete to come to her defense, and paying the price for it? The answer was obvious and didn’t need to be verbalized.

Emily crouched next to Chrisman’s body just to make sure he was really dead. Not that she had doubts about it, but, well, you could never be too sure these days.

She checked his vitals and found them flat.

“Is he dead?” Greg asked.

She nodded.

“What now?” Greg asked.

Emily stood up. “We stick to the story. He went psycho and attacked the kids while they were in here with him.”

“But that’s not what happened, Emily.”

“Troyer and Barton won’t know the difference. They’ll only know what we tell them. Chrisman can’t disagree. Dead men tell no tales.”

“Emily…”

“I need you to trust me on this, Greg. This is the right call.”

“But we have truth on our side.”

She sighed. Was Greg really this gullible? Or just naïve?

She said, as evenly and patiently as she could muster, “Now is not the time to have faith that two strangers with a lot of guns will just take our word for what happened and forget that we killed one of their own. We don’t know how long they’ve been together. It could be days, weeks, or years. If they’re close, they won’t just accept our side of the story.”

“You think they’ll retaliate?”

“I think I don’t want to take the chance. But if they think he turned, then I really had no choice.”

“How do we explain him turning just now?”

“I don’t know. How does anyone explain anything that’s happened the last couple of days?”

“That’s a good point.”

I know, that’s why I came up with it, Emily thought.

She looked across the room at Chrisman’s duffel bag, crumpled up in the far corner. Eureka. She’d been waiting for the opportunity to raid it, and there it was.

“I still think we should just tell them the truth,” Greg was saying.

She sighed again, maybe louder than necessary this time. And here she thought she’d gotten through to him—

“What truth?” a voice said from behind them.

Emily turned around, the thoughts, Goddammit. Not yet. I needed more time. I needed more time!

Her first instinct was to hide the 1911, but it was too late for that.

Barton and Troyer stood at the opened backroom door looking in at them.

“Well?” Troyer said. He’d been the one that had spoken earlier. “What didn’t you have any choice about?”

Chapter 13

Troyer walked over, his eyes snapping from Pete’s lifeless body to Savannah crying in Greg’s arms to Chrisman’s body on the floor. If the sight of Chrisman’s unmoving form elicited anything other than curiosity from the deputy, Emily couldn’t see it. That made her wonder just how close the trio was to begin with.

“Someone wanna tell me what happened here?” Troyer asked.

“He became infected,” Emily said.

“Chrisman?”

“No fucking way,” Barton said.

The other deputy hadn’t moved from the door. Or, Emily noticed, lowered his shotgun. Not that he was pointing the weapon at her, Greg, or Savannah, but it wouldn’t have taken very much for him to do just that. Certainly, he could lift the pump-action and fire before she could do the same with the 1911 in her hand.

…the 1911 in her hand…

She resisted the urge to hide it. There was no way to do that now without attracting attention. Unless they were blind and dumb, Troyer and Barton would have spotted it in her hand already, even if neither men had mentioned it yet.

Emily turned to Troyer. “I saw his eyes. They were red when he attacked Pete.”

“He turned?” Troyer said.

“That’s right.”

“How?”

“How should I know? How does anyone know anything about what’s happened the last two days?”

Troyer crouched next to Chrisman, lying flat on his stomach. But the dead man’s head was turned slightly, and Troyer peered at his eyes.

“Well?” Barton said from the door.

“I don’t see shit,” Troyer said.

“Look closer,” Emily said, even as she prepared herself to mentally shoot Troyer, then spin and shoot Barton. It wouldn’t be easy, and she’d have to risk just one bullet on Troyer before taking Barton.

It was risky, but if she had no choice…

Emily sensed Greg staring at her and looked up at him. She shook her head—slightly. Not enough that anyone would notice if they weren’t staring right at her. She just hoped Barton wasn’t doing just that from the door. She couldn’t tell because she was looking in the wrong direction.

Troyer, meanwhile, had kneeled down on the floor to get a better look at Chrisman. He couldn’t get too close because of all the blood the deputy had bled out, but he was near enough that he would know Emily was lying about Chrisman’s eyes.

First Troyer, then Barton…

Troyer looked up and over at her. “His eyes look fine.”

“They looked red to me,” Emily said. She spoke calmly and with confidence. “Maybe he didn’t get a chance to fully turn, but I know what I saw. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have attacked Pete.”

Troyer glanced over at Pete. “Goddamn. Chrisman did that?”

“Yes,” Emily said. “I didn’t have any choice.”

“You keep saying that.”

“She’s right; his eyes were red,” Greg said. Then, when Troyer turned to him, “I saw them, too. So did Savannah.”

Troyer looked over at the girl.

She peered back at him from the safety of Greg’s arms.

“You see his eyes too, missy?” Troyer asked her.

“Yes,” Savannah said. Or squeaked.

“He was smashing Pete’s head into the wall when we came in,” Emily said. “He was out of control. I recognized the look. We all did. He was psycho. Maybe he hadn’t fully turned yet, but he was turning.”

Troyer stood up and, hands on his hips, stared at the wall covered in Pete’s blood.

“Unless your friend was some kind of crazy bastard, why would he do something like that to Pete?” Emily asked.

Troyer turned to her. “He wouldn’t. Because he wasn’t.”

“So he turned. Or was in the process of turning. Either way, he killed Pete.”

“You’re guessing,” Barton said from behind her.

She glanced over one shoulder at him. “We all are. Just making guesses about this thing. Whatever ‘this’ thing is that’s happening out there.” She faced Troyer again. “He was coming after me next. I had no choice.”

As if he were noticing the 1911 in her hand for the first time, Troyer asked, “Where’d you get the gun?”

“It’s Pete’s,” Emily said.

“The boy?”

“Yes.”

“Why does he have a gun?”

“It’s his dad’s,” Savannah said, her head still partially buried in Greg’s chest.

“You didn’t tell us you had a gun,” Troyer said to Emily.

“You didn’t ask,” Emily said.

He smirked. She wasn’t sure if that was amusement or annoyance. “How are we going to ever trust each other if we keep hiding secrets?”

“I can ask you the same question. What’s in the bags?”

“Supplies.”

“Show me.”

“No. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“I see.”

He grinned, before looking back down at Chrisman. The deputy hooked the steel toe of one boot underneath the dead man and turned him over onto his back.

Troyer whistled. “Multiple shots, and you hit Chrisman with every single one of them.”

“I got lucky,” Emily said.

“Must have, because otherwise I might think you’re more than just a lonely housewife waiting to be rescued.”

“What makes you think I’m lonely or waiting to be rescued?”

Troyer chuckled, and so did Barton somewhere behind her. Emily wanted desperately to turn around to keep an eye on the other deputy, but didn’t give in to the urge. She had to be satisfied with knowing he was back there, maybe waiting for a reason to shoot her.

She wasn’t about to give it to him.

Neither was Greg nor Savannah, who had remained quiet for some time now.

“Maybe I read you all wrong,” Troyer was saying to Emily.

“Maybe you did,” Emily said.

“What did you do before all of this?”

“Before all of what?”

She knew what he meant, but she wanted to hear him say it. She wanted to prod him, to see what kind of man was hiding behind those blue eyes, that square jaw, and good looks.

“The housewife gig,” he said.

She shrugged. “I had a boring desk job.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I really don’t give a shit what you believe, Deputy.”

He chuckled again, but there wasn’t very much humor the second time around. “No wonder you’ve survived this long. I get the feeling you’re going to outlive us all.”

“God willing.”

“You believe in God?”

“Don’t you?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. What’s happening out there, with the psychos as you call them… That’s the kind of stuff that can make a believer out of even an atheist.”

“End of the world and all that?”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe something like the Rapture.”

“Maybe something like that. Take the good people, leave the bad ones behind. Which makes sense for me, Barton, and Chrisman.” He smiled. “But what did you do that made God leave you behind?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“It was just a question. Don’t have to bite my head off.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Or shoot me.”

“Funny,” Emily said.

The deputy chuckled again. It sounded even more forced than the last time. “But hey, keep it a secret if you want. No skin off my nose. Just as long as you don’t point that thing at me.” He looked back down at Chrisman. “Anyways, if you said he was turning, I guess he was turning. After all, we weren’t here, so we’ll just have to take your word for it. Though, I have to say, it’s weird his eyes aren’t bloodshot.”

“Yeah, that is weird,” Emily said. “I saw blood, though.”

“Did you?”

“Definitely.”

“Hunh.”

“I saw it, too,” Greg said.

“Me too,” Savannah added.

Troyer looked back at the contractor, then Savannah. Then he turned back to Emily. “Well, if all three of you said you saw Chrisman turning psycho, I guess Barton and I will just have to take your word for it. Right, Barton?”

“I guess so,” Barton said behind Emily. “Poor Chrisman.”

Troyer smiled at her again, though Emily didn’t believe it for a second. “That neighbor of yours. Don something?”

“Don Taylor,” Emily said. “Is he dead?”

“He’s scrappy.”

“So he’s not dead?”

“Nope. Like I said, scrappy.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“Barton tagged him, but he got away.”

“He got away? You fired a lot of shots.”

“Doesn’t mean much if they don’t land.” He smirked in Barton’s direction, still somewhere behind Emily. “Right, Barton?”

“Pretty sure I put some buckshot in him,” Barton said.

“So you keep saying.”

Barton chortled. “Pretty sure.”

“Bottom line? He ran lickety-split outta there,” Troyer said to her. “Fast little bastard. Was making himself a nice ol’ home in that house.”

“What did he used to do for a living?” Barton asked.

“Who?” Emily said. “Don?”

“Yeah.”

“As far as I know, he was a CPA.”

“No shit?” Troyer said.

“No shit,” Emily said.

“Well, damn,” Barton said. “Slick fucker, for a CPA.”

Troyer grunted. “I guess they’re teaching crazy things in CPA school these days.”

“I guess so,” Emily said.

She finally allowed herself to glance back at the other deputy. Barton had lowered his shotgun to his side and didn’t seem quite as threatening anymore. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. The fact that neither he nor Troyer seemed especially angry about Chrisman was a point of confusion, and the only conclusion she could draw was that they weren’t longtime coworkers. Maybe they didn’t even like the other man. That was entirely possible, given what Chrisman had tried on Savannah, then done to Pete. Maybe the other two deputies had even seen him do worse things.

Bottom line: their surprisingly easy (okay, so maybe it hadn’t been that easy) acceptance of her story made her even more cautious.

Emily kept the gun right where it belonged: next to her side, her forefinger against the trigger guard.

“By the way,” Troyer was saying to her, “we’re going to take that boat in your boathouse out back.”

“What?” Emily said.

“The boat. We’re going to take it and head down the lake, see what else is out there.”

“You’re taking my boat?”

“Why not? You don’t seem to need it.”

“It’s my boat.”

“Not anymore.” He grinned at her. “What? You thought we were going to stay here forever?”

“What’s out there?” Greg asked.

“Maybe answers, maybe nothing,” Troyer said.

“Whatever’s out there, it’s not going to come to us just sitting around in here,” Barton said. “We were hoping this side of the lake was better, had some answers, but it’s the same story, different shit. The idea was always to go hunt down some answers.”

“You guys aren’t curious about what’s happening out there?” Troyer said. He had walked over to stand next to Barton, as if Chrisman’s body didn’t mean a damn thing to him anymore.

Curiouser and curiouser.

“You don’t wanna know what the rest of the city is like?” Troyer continued. “The state? Hell, the entire world?”

The truth was, Emily did wonder. That was all she had done these last couple of days. But she also didn’t want to leave Arrow Bay—or even this house—because it was the only place Cole knew where to find her with any certainty. Out there, regardless of what she found, there was no beacon for Cole.

“Any of you wanna come, you can tag along,” Troyer was saying. “We got an open spot now.”

Emily met Greg’s gaze across the room. The contractor might have been thinking the same thing she was: That Troyer and Barton couldn’t care less about what had happened to Chrisman. They didn’t even seem slightly irritated anymore.

“We’re going to take our chances in here,” Greg said. “Maybe you guys can come back and tell us what you found out there.”

“Sure, why not,” Troyer said, not even trying to be convincing.

“Suit yourselves,” Barton said. He glanced down at his watch, then back at Troyer. “It’s been a tough day. Tomorrow morning?”

Troyer nodded. “Tomorrow morning. Then we’re outta here.”

Emily wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but she didn’t.

Because it was too easy.

It was way, way too easy.

Chapter 14

“When are you guys leaving exactly?” Greg asked.

“Why, you changed your mind?” Troyer said while shoveling sweet corn into his mouth with a big silver spoon.

They were gathered around the dining room table, where there was still enough light coming from the barricaded windows that they didn’t have to waste the batteries in the LED lamps.

“Just wondering,” Greg was saying. “Don’t want to wake up tomorrow and find the two of you gone. Along with those guns.”

“And here I thought it was our charming personalities you’ll miss,” Troyer said, chuckling.

“That, too.”

“We’re thinking about eight,” Barton said. The shorter of the two deputies was rooting around the bottom of a can of beefaroni with his fork. Emily only knew that because the deputy was being very loud about it. “About an hour after sunup, but still early enough to be moving in cool weather.”

“You guys leaving on foot?”

“We’re thinking about taking the Audi in the garage,” Troyer said.

Greg didn’t answer for a moment.

“You think she’ll mind?” Troyer, and Emily pictured him just barely trying to hide his smirk as he said it.

“I’m pretty sure she will,” Greg said.

“I’ll ask nicely.”

“Doubt that’ll work.”

“I can be very convincing.”

Troyer chuckled again. He, along with Greg and Barton, were distorted figures against the face of the framed photo next to the front door. She had been listening and watching them using the glass for the last few minutes. Her back was pressed against the wall, the opening into the dining room to her right, just slightly out of view. They couldn’t see her, but she could hear them just fine.

She was still covered in dry sweat after burying Chrisman and Pete in the backyard not more than thirty minutes earlier. She and Greg, anyway. Emily had kept expecting the psychos to take the opportunity to attack, but with the deputies standing guard with their shotguns, they had kept their distance. Greg had done most of the digging, not wanting her to do too much work given her condition. She’d helped anyway because she didn’t want Savannah to have to do it. The poor kid had just lost her boyfriend—witnessed his brutal murder with her own eyes—and it would have probably killed her to have to dig his grave, too.

Emily was grateful she had gardening gloves to prevent blisters, but even so, her palms were sore from the physical labor. Greg’s were probably worse since she hadn’t been able to find any gloves big enough for him, but the contractor hadn’t complained even a little bit.

She looked away from her palms and focused on the three men gathered around the dining room table on the other side of the wall now. Troyer the closest, with Barton across the round oak furniture. Greg sat to the right, in front of the doorway that connected the dining room and the kitchen.

And there, the three duffel bags resting on the floor at their feet. Three, because Troyer had grabbed Chrisman’s and taken it out of the backroom before Emily had the chance to take a look at its contents. Either the two men knew she and Greg were eyeing those bags, or they weren’t taking any chances losing them. Probably a little of both.

So what exactly was in those bags besides guns and ammo? Why were they so protective of them?

“Where’s her husband?” Barton was asking.

“In the city,” Greg said.

“Then he’s dead,” Troyer said.

“She doesn’t think so.”

“Of course not. Every wife thinks her husband is Superman. Why should she be any different?”

“I don’t know,” Greg said, “but she’s very convinced he’s still out there and making his way here now.”

“He would have gotten here by now if he was,” Barton said. “Face facts. If just half the population turned wackadoo, that’s over a million people jammed into one place. Those are some seriously bad odds. We got lucky, being here at Bear Lake when it all went down. There’s a lot less people out here to deal with.”

“You said lucky?”

“Yeah. Lucky. Why?”

“Funny, that’s all.”

“What’s so funny about it?”

“I’ve never considered myself lucky.”

“Things change. Just look around you,” Troyer said.

“You should come with us,” Barton said. “There’s nothing for you here.”

“I can’t,” Greg said. “I promised her I’d stay.”

“Why? What exactly are you hoping to get by hanging around? You think she’ll forget about her husband all of a sudden?”

“That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

“Come with us,” Troyer said. “We got extra room now that Chrisman’s dead.”

“You don’t sound very beat up about it,” Greg said.

Troyer chuckled. “Hey, you know what they say. The only two certainties in life are death and taxes.”

“Used to be, anyway,” Barton said. “Now it’s death, taxes, and psychos.”

The two deputies laughed, but Greg didn’t join them.

Footsteps!

Emily turned around, tightening her grip on the SIG Sauer at her side, but it was only Savannah coming out of the back hallway. The teenager saw her reaction and froze in place. Emily lifted her forefinger to her lips and the girl nodded back.

In the dining room, Barton was still working on Greg: “You’re not in love with her, are you?”

Greg laughed.

Except Emily thought it was a little…What? Forced?

“You’re crazy,” Greg said. “I just don’t like the idea of leaving her and the girl behind.”

“The girl could come with us, too,” Troyer said.

“She doesn’t want to.”

“Maybe I won’t give her a choice.”

“What are you saying?”

This time, it was Troyer who laughed unconvincingly.

“He’s just fucking around,” Barton said. “Don’t mind him.”

Emily looked back at Savannah. The girl was leaning against the opposite wall, watching her back. Emily wasn’t sure if she’d heard the conversation—with her as the current central topic—or not because Savannah’s eyes were so focused on the gun in Emily’s hand.

“Yeah,” Troyer was saying. “I’m just fucking around. Don’t mind me.”

“About the Audi,” Greg said.

“What about it?”

“Maybe you can ask; it’s possible she’ll let you have it. It’s not like we’re going to be using it anytime soon. I know she’s not.”

“Don’t have to,” Barton said. “There are plenty of other cars around. Most of them still have gas in the tank. You said the dead kid’s car is still parked at the front gate?”

“Pete.”

“Yeah, him.”

“That’s what he told us.”

“Then it’s probably still there. Keys in the ignition?”

“That, I’m not sure of.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter. Like I said, plenty of cars sitting around, waiting for someone to drive them.”

“You know you’ll have to open the gate, right? Manually?”

“No problem,” Troyer said. “The same thing that makes these infected assholes smart is the same thing that’s going to keep them away from us.”

“Your guns.”

“Exact—” Barton was saying when Emily finally pushed off the wall and revealed herself.

Barton didn’t finish what he was about to say. He was sitting across the table from Troyer and saw her first. He’d shut up because the 1911 was in Emily’s hand, and she had it pointed at the back of Troyer’s head.

“The fuck?” Barton said instead.

Troyer began to turn around, when Emily said, “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

The deputy didn’t finish his turn. Instead, he looked across the table at Barton, who shook his head.

“Well, shit,” Troyer said.

Emily quickly scanned the table now that she was out in the open and could see everything clearly.

Barton sat back in his seat, clearly full from his meal. There was a bottle of water halfway to his lips when he spotted her, and it was still there. His current pose allowed Emily to see both his hands—the right one holding the plastic bottle and the left resting on the tabletop. His pump-action shotgun lay in front of him, within easy reach. Unless, of course, someone was pointing a gun in your vicinity, and it wouldn’t have taken them much to redirect it at you.

“Keep those hands on the table,” Emily said.

Out of the corner of her right eye, she saw Greg jump up from his chair and move back, away from the table, just as they had discussed. He was moving clear of Emily’s line of fire.

Emily was focused on Barton across the table when Troyer, his back still turned to her, slowly slid one hand toward the shotgun lying very close to Barton’s—

She shot the saltshaker sitting in the middle of the table between the two men. Both deputies ducked reflexively as the glass container shattered and salt pelted them.

“Christ!” Barton shouted.

Emily sidestepped slightly to get a better look at Troyer’s front, at the same time still keeping Barton on one side and within view. As she did so, she caught the quick glance between the two men as they straightened back up in their chairs. They didn’t have to say a word for her to know what they were thinking: There were two of them and only one of her, and she could only shoot one of them at a time.

“The question is, which one of you wants to risk being shot?” she asked them.

That stopped them from acting on their unspoken plan.

“Hands back on the table,” she said.

Troyer added his hands to the tabletop, Barton having never moved his left. His right was still holding the water bottle.

“Greg,” Emily said.

The big man rushed forward and snatched up both shotguns from the table. He stepped back and slung one over his back, before positioning the other one to take aim at Barton.

“Shoot him if he puts down that water bottle,” Emily said.

“What?” Barton said.

“You heard me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Greg said, lifting the pump-action to aim it at Barton’s chest.

Barton swallowed, and the water bottle wavered slightly in the air.

Emily moved toward Troyer and slid the handgun out of his hip holster, then hurried around the table and did the same to Barton. They were both carrying Glocks. She shoved the pistols into her front waistband and stepped back again.

“Savannah!” she shouted.

The girl appeared quickly, as if she had been waiting for the signal. Which wasn’t possible because Emily and Greg hadn’t told her about their plan, mostly because neither one of them were sure she was up to the task. Emily wouldn’t have blamed the teenager if she wasn’t, not after witnessing Pete’s grisly death at Chrisman’s hands.

“Secure the duffel bags,” Emily said.

Savannah had to crawl under the table to do that, but she came out dragging all three bags by their straps. They must have been heavier than Emily thought, because the girl had to pull them across the floor, straining the whole time.

“Big mistake,” Troyer said, his eyes fixed on Emily.

She ignored him and turned to Barton. “Stand up.”

“Why?” Barton asked.

She pointed the gun in his face. “Stand the fuck up.”

“What about this water bottle? My hand is getting a little unsteady.”

“Put it down.”

He did, lowering the bottle to the table before standing up as commanded. “Now what?”

“The wall. Assume the position.”

The deputy grunted, then turned around and walked to the wall and spread his legs, before interlacing his fingers behind his head without having to be told.

He’s done that before, Emily thought.

“Greg,” Emily said.

Greg swiveled his shotgun away from Barton and pointed it at Troyer, who hadn’t moved from his chair.

Emily walked over to Barton and patted him down. He had a switchblade in his back pocket and a smaller Glock in an ankle holster. She removed both.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“The ladies have been known to say I pack a cannon in my trousers,” Barton said.

Troyer, somewhere behind her, scoffed.

“Doubtful,” she said, stepping back. “Sit down.”

Barton did as instructed.

She nodded at Greg, who turned the shotgun back to Barton, leaving her to deal with Troyer.

“Your turn,” she said to the other deputy.

“Can I at least get dinner first?” Troyer said even as he stood up slowly from his chair.

“You already did.”

“Spam?”

“Food is food. Don’t be so picky.”

“This is a mistake,” Barton said. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing. We came here on good faith. This is not the way you treat friends.”

“You’re not our friends,” Emily said. “Friends wouldn’t leave us here with just one handgun to defend ourselves with.”

And four bullets in the magazine, she thought about adding, but decided they didn’t have to know she only had four bullets left after shooting Chrisman earlier, and just now, the saltshaker.

She expected Troyer to make a move, twist and try to grab her gun when she patted him down, but he didn’t. Instead, he assumed the position like Barton had earlier (They’ve definitely done this before.) and let her pat him down.

Emily found and removed an extra Glock in a back holster from Troyer.

When she had them disarmed, Emily gave Greg another nod, and the big man let out a sigh of relief. He lowered the shotgun, then took another step back until he was leaning against the wall for support. Emily guessed he was on the verge of passing out from all the stress and adrenaline.

She glanced over at Savannah, standing nearby with the duffel bags gathered around her feet. “Open one of them, Savannah. Let’s see what’s inside.”

Savannah nodded and crouched, then unzipped the closest bag before dragging it across the tiled floor toward a stream of fading sunlight coming through one of the barricaded windows to get a better look.

As Emily had guessed, there were weapons inside, including an M4 carbine and spare magazines taped up in bundles. The teenager reached in and pulled out a couple of spare handguns and boxes of ammo. Then she found something that, from the look on her face, caught her by surprise.

“What is it?” Emily asked.

Savannah didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled out a velvet black pouch.

“Open it,” Emily said.

Savannah did.

Diamonds, like glittering glass raindrops, pelted the dirt-caked floor and rolled everywhere.

Emily looked back at the two deputies sitting at the table. “What did you do, rob a jewelry store?”

“Maybe a whole jewelry chain of stores,” Greg said. He was crouched next to the bag and was pulling out two, three, four more of the black pouches. Each one looked full.

“Diamonds,” Emily said. “What were you going to do with them?”

“It’s not stealing if the previous owners are dead,” Barton said.

“You don’t know that,” Greg said.

“Don’t I? Look outside, buddy. This is not going to get better tomorrow. Or a week. Or a month from now. This is permanent. This is the We Are All Fucked times.”

“So why diamonds?” Emily asked.

“What do you mean?” Barton said.

“What exactly are diamonds worth if this is, like you said, the end times?”

Barton and Troyer exchanged a look.

They don’t know, she thought. They stole the diamonds, but they have absolutely no idea why or what they’ll do with them.

“You don’t know,” she said out loud.

“They’re diamonds,” Barton said as if that should explain everything.

They didn’t, but then she didn’t think the two deputies—if that was even what they really were—knew that.

“You’re thieves,” Emily said.

“Like Barton said, can’t be thieves if the owners are dead,” Troyer said.

“Is that your excuse?”

“You got a better one?”

“No. And right now, I don’t much care.”

“So, what?” Barton asked. “You gonna kill us?”

“Should I?”

“I don’t know. That’s up—” Barton started to say, when something heavy smashed into the dining room window behind them.

Glass shattered, and one of the doors they had barricaded the window with cracked in half and splinters flew across the room.

Emily ducked instinctively, spinning around toward the source.

Savannah screamed and Greg dropped the bags of diamonds and scrambled to pick the shotgun back up from the floor.

Emily stared at a pair of red eyes, glaring at her from the other side of the window. If she believed in monsters, this would be one of them. But she didn’t, and this wasn’t.

It was a man.

A hulking man wielding a massive object, and he wanted to come in.

Chapter 15

Everything happened all at once and too fast. Or it appeared too fast to her as her mind attempted to catch up to her eyes and ears. Through it all, she had to fight past the wild sensation of the hairs along both arms and the back of her neck spiking as the air was electrified with motion.

And danger. So much danger.

Before Bear Lake, before Cole, before this six-week-old baby growing inside her, Emily would have been able to take it all in and flow with it. She wouldn’t have had to think. Wouldn’t have had to catch up. She would have just acted.

But those days were long gone. She was a housewife now. The old skills that had made her so employable after the Army had gone dormant. After all, what did a housewife need with the ability to instantly sift through a chaotic situation, process every little bit of detail, and compute a decisive plan of attack—all within the space of a few heartbeats?

She did that now—or tried to—as the house (her dream house) burst into chaos.

Greg, shouting from somewhere behind her: “Hey, stop! I said stop!”

(Who was he shouting at?)

The psycho, hammering the window barrier across the room. Bam-bam-bam!

(What the hell was he wielding? Some kind of sledgehammer?)

Barton, already on his feet, and making a run for it.

(Where did he think he was going? And did he really think he was going to make it?)

And Troyer—where was Troyer?

(Shit. Where the hell was Troyer?)

The house, along with her eardrums, were rocked by a loud explosion from nearby.

No, not an explosion.

A shotgun blast.

Emily twisted around. Greg had squeezed the trigger on the pump-action, the resulting boom so loud that Emily thought every one of the walls, along with the floor and ceiling, might have shook for a few seconds afterward.

(Is that possible? Probably not.)

When she followed the trajectory of Greg’s shotgun, she found Barton on the floor, lying facedown. There was a big black and red splatter on his back where the buckshot had landed. Greg, as far as she knew, had just shot his first man.

Emily wished she could have said she’d never seen someone die in front of her eyes before, but it would have been a lie. Instead of feeling remorse or shock by the obvious death of Barton, all Emily could think was, One down! One to go!

That other one was Troyer, who was, in her mind, the most dangerous of the trio.

And she couldn’t find him.

(Shit. Where did he go? Where’d that asshole go?)

A flash of motion as the man himself appeared from the other side of the oak table and made a run for the kitchen door.

Goddammit. The man had been hiding on the floor this entire time, waiting for his opportunity!

Emily took aim. “Troyer!”

The deputy—not that she believed he was a deputy anymore—kept going and didn’t look back.

Smart fucker, she thought as she pulled the trigger.

Or was in the process of pulling the trigger, because before she could, there was another massive bam! behind her.

(The psycho. He’s still coming through the window!)

The hesitation allowed Troyer to dive through the opening that connected the dining room and kitchen on the other side. The man disappeared out of view.

Dammit!

Another wall-shaking bam! from behind her.

Emily spun around as the hulking psycho struck the piece of lumber fastened over the dining room window, cracking the wood paneling and sending splinters flying around the room like little missiles. The now-two pieces fell to the sides, revealing a dark shape that was, she could now confirm, holding a blood-covered sledgehammer in both gloved fists.

“Troyer!” Greg, shouting as he ran toward the kitchen. “He’s getting away!”

“Greg, stop!” Emily shouted.

Greg stopped and looked over at her. His eyes were wide, his face white.

“Don’t follow him inside!” she shouted.

“What?”

“Forget about him!”

She knew he was about to ask Why but never got the chance, because Savannah shouted from behind them, “He’s coming in! He’s coming in!”

Emily didn’t have to wonder who he was that was trying to come in.

She turned back to face the window as the monstrous psycho, his neck the size of her thigh, climbed through the gaping hole in the formerly-barricaded window. He rested one large booted leg inside first, then began to pull the rest of him in.

The psycho looked bloated, his face flushed red with blood and adrenaline. Emily didn’t know what was more imposing—all the blood dripping from his eyes and chin or the sight of a six-five human being that made the sledgehammer he was holding in his hand look like a children’s toy. At that moment, Emily was reminded of a character in one of the comic books that her young brother used to read called the Blob.

“I got him, I got him!” Greg was shouting as he stepped forward and took aim with the shotgun at the psycho.

Before Greg could fire, though, a second figure appeared behind the Blob and shoved something long and metal and, apparently, very sharp (Is that a spear? Emily thought) into the man’s back.

The Blob let out a roar and pulled his leg back through the window. Blood splattered the frames as he took another spear (Where the hell did the other guy get a spear?) in the stomach. But if the other psycho thought that was going to stop the Blob, he was wrong. Emily watched, fascinated, as the bloated man simply pulled the spear (Yes, she thought, that’s definitely a homemade spear!) out of his stomach with one hand even as he swung the sledgehammer with the other.

“Emily!” Savannah, shouting.

Emily pried her eyes from the fighting outside her dining room window to look over at the teenager. Savannah was staring into the living room even as she backed away from it.

The living room.

The living room!

“Greg!” Emily shouted.

The contractor looked over at her. His eyes were still wide, frenzied. She’d never seen him so… Was that fear? Shock? Both?

She wondered at that moment what she looked like.

“The living room!” she shouted at Greg. “Cover the living room! Kill anything that tries to come in!”

He nodded and rushed off, passing a still-backing up Savannah.

Emily turned back to the dining room window. The Blob was done with the other psycho and was already climbing back inside. He was cutting himself on the shards of glass sticking from the window frames, not that he seemed to give a damn. Emily supposed getting sliced and diced by glass was nothing compared to the two spear holes in him—one in the back and one in the stomach. Blood poured out of the hulking figure and splashed her tiled floor.

Sorry, Cole, but looks like we’re going to have to redecorate all over again, sweetheart!

Emily almost laughed out loud at the inane thought. Almost.

Instead, she walked toward the Blob as he was in the process of pulling his second leg in. Emily fired, aiming for the head, but the Blob was turning to look at Savannah when she did, and the round obliterated his right ear instead.

An arc of blood sprayed her wallpaper. The same wallpaper she’d had to fight tooth and nail to pick out because she and Cole couldn’t see eye to eye. In the end he’d relented, telling her that he loved her, and he’d give her the kitchen and every other part of the house as long as he got a man cave in the back.

The Blob turned back to her, his red face as flushed with blood and adrenaline and God knew what else as before. He pulled the rest of him through the opening while a healthy stream of blood dripped from what remained of his ear.

Emily fired again, aiming for the largest part of her target.

The man was already inside when her round struck him in the chest. He staggered, but didn’t stop. Instead, he lumbered in her direction, dragging the hammer behind him.

She squeezed the trigger again, and again, and—

Click!

As the 1911’s slide locked back.

Empty!

She’d lost count of how many bullets she’d fired and had wasted everything trying to put the Blob down.

But he hadn’t gone down.

Instead, the man continued to move toward her, dragging the sledgehammer behind him. Blood poured from his wounds. Too many to count. The spear had gotten him deep in the gut, but her own rounds had taken their toll, too.

Not enough, as it turned out.

The man squinted at her, the corners of his mouth curving up into a wide, almost maniacal grin. If the Blob could talk (Can they still talk? she wondered), he might have said to her, My turn now, little missy.

But of course he didn’t say that. He didn’t say anything, in fact, as he stalked toward her.

Emily dropped the 1911 and reached for Troyer’s gun. It was stuffed in her front waistband along with Barton’s, and in all the action she had managed to hang onto them. Thank God, because—

Boom! as Greg fired with the shotgun and the psycho’s right arm, holding the sledgehammer, fell off. Blood gushed from the man’s neck where some of the buckshot had landed, but most of it was coming from the stump. Emily wasn’t sure if that was where Greg had intended for his shot to land. If not, it was a damn lucky accident.

The psycho stopped for a moment, as if confused by what had just happened, and stared almost nonchalantly down at his right arm lying on the floor. The fingers of the detached appendage, Emily saw, were somehow still wrapped tightly around the sledgehammer’s handle. One or two of them might have even still been twitching.

Greg similarly stared at the hulking figure as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Emily didn’t wait for Greg to finish off the Blob. She stepped toward him, Troyer’s Glock in her hand, and fired.

Instead of shooting for the chest again—it was massive and an easy hit—she went for the head.

It only took one shot.

The psycho’s head snapped back, and he collapsed in a pile.

Emily didn’t have a chance to make sure he was dead—but he’d have to be, there was a bloody hole in his forehead where she had aimed—because another dark figure appeared on the other side of the now-open dining room window.

She turned, aiming with the Glock, when the figure dashed out of view.

Emily began to back up.

“You okay?” Greg asked.

“The living room,” Emily said.

“It’s okay. They’re so busy fighting each other out there that no one’s tried to come through yet.”

As if on cue, they both heard someone screaming outside the house. It was loud, but short.

Psychos.

Psychos fighting psychos.

Good for us, she thought.

For how long, though? Sooner or later one of them was going to try to come in. That was fine. It wasn’t going to be hard to deal with just one psycho.

But how many were out there? How many had been waiting in the dark for the opportunity to pounce? They were doing that right now, but to each other.

Another scream, followed by the echoing thwack! of something solid—maybe even metal—cutting into flesh.

“Emily,” Greg was saying.

“The bags,” she said.

“What?”

“The bags.”

Emily ran over and grabbed one of the duffel bags by the strap and lifted it. It was heavy. Way heavier than she’d anticipated. She slung it anyway, then reached for another one. Greg beat her to it and snatched it up from the floor. Then he did the same to the third and final bag.

“Where to now?” the big man asked. He had both shotguns slung over his back.

“The backroom,” Emily said.

“You sure? We’ll be stuck in there.”

“It’s better than being out here.”

They both hurried into the living room, but stopped for a moment to look toward the windows. Some of the barricades had been knocked down, giving them a good view of multiple dark figures flashing across the openings. Someone else screamed, and she heard the thwack-thwack! of metal connecting with flesh again.

“Your neighbors,” Greg said. He sounded tired and was breathing hard.

She was too, she realized, when she answered, “Uh huh.”

The contractor glanced back toward the dining room. “What about Troyer?”

Emily followed his gaze. “If he’s smart—and he is—he would have gone for the garage next door.”

“You think he’s still in there?”

“Maybe. He’d be stupid to go out into that bloodbath.”

“He’s unarmed…”

“Maybe not. Cole had tools in the garage. And there were knives in the kitchen.”

“Right. I forgot about those.”

Another scream from outside, just before something crashed into the front door.

Emily and Greg glanced back reflexively. Then, without coordinating it, simultaneously took a step back.

A voice said from behind them, “Guys?”

Emily looked back at Savannah, standing in the dark in the back hallway behind them.

“What now?” the teenager asked.

“The backroom,” Emily said to Greg.

Greg turned and went first.

Emily backed up, her eyes glued on her living room windows as more dark figures flashed back and forth. The loud patter of running shoes, the thwack-thwack of more steel going into flesh, and pained cries filled the night sky outside her dream home’s walls.

“Emily,” Greg said from behind her.

She turned and hurried over, then slipped past him. Greg pulled the door shut behind her. It clanged into place, sealing off the chaos outside.

Chapter 16

Furniture falling, glass breaking, and occasionally the loud grunts of men and women fighting for their lives—and trying to kill each other. A battle royale of psychos taking place in her living room at this very moment. If they even remembered she, Greg, and Savannah were inside the backroom, not a single one of them attempted to assault the door to get in at them. Maybe not a single one of them had made it to the back hallway before they succumbed to another killer.

And then, after what seemed like hours of fighting, pained grunts, and the almost-staccato (and never-ending) thwacks of hard objects striking exposed flesh, there was…nothing.

Silence.

Total, dead silence.

Emily exchanged a look with Greg, stationed on the other side of the steel door. She had a feeling he was mirroring her own questioning look: “What’s happening now? Is it over? Are they all dead?”

Greg didn’t say anything, and neither did Emily. It was almost as if they were afraid to make a sound, something that would lead the psychos to their position. So far, they’d managed to escape unnoticed.

So far...

The night dragged on.

And the silence continued.

Finally, after about an hour of nothing, Greg whispered, “I don’t hear anything.”

She shook her head. “Same.”

“Maybe they did it. Killed each other. All of them.”

“Maybe,” she said, but of course she didn’t believe it.

Looking at Greg’s face, visible in the glow of the LED lamps they’d brought in from Greg’s van earlier in the day, she knew even the contractor couldn’t bring himself to buy it.

“I didn’t know there were so many of them still out there,” he said. “Where were they hiding all this time?”

“Everywhere, apparently, just waiting for the opportunity to strike.”

“Why are they still here? Why didn’t they try to leave? It can’t be the fence.”

“It’s not. Oh, I’m sure some of them tried—and succeeded—in leaving Arrow Bay. Whether that’s forcing the gate open or climbing the fence. Given how fast they can move, I don’t think a ten-foot wall would stop them if they wanted to get out.”

“So why didn’t they all leave?”

“Why should they? This is the perfect spot for them.”

“I don’t understand…”

“They’re predators, Greg. Arrow Bay is surrounded by a ten-foot fence on one side and the lake on the other. It’s the perfect killing ground. Why would they go out there in search of other prey when we’re still in here?”

Greg didn’t say anything for a moment. She imagined him running everything she’d just said through his mind. If he was anything like her, he wouldn’t like the conclusions.

“You think there’s still a lot of us in here?” the big man finally asked. “Unaffected?”

“I think there’s enough. But it’s not just us. It’s the others, too.”

“The other psychos.”

“Yes. As soon as the prey runs out, they’ll move on. The ones still alive, anyway. It’s Darwinism. Survival of the fittest.”

“Us, or them?”

“Both.”

Greg didn’t say anything for a while again. This time, she couldn’t imagine what he was thinking.

After another excruciating five minutes of silence, the contractor asked, “You think he’s still alive?”

“Who?”

“Troyer.”

She thought about it for a moment, before answering. “It’s possible. I think he’s too smart to just run out of the garage with all that killing out there. He’d probably bide his time, waiting for us to come after him.”

“I was about to do that…”

“It would have been a mistake.”

“Maybe.”

“No, Greg, it would have been a mistake. The garage is dark, and Troyer would have already armed himself. A screwdriver in the right place feels just as bad as a bullet.”

“Oh, since you put it that way…”

She agreed with Greg, though. The last thing she needed right now was to have someone like Troyer loitering around in the background. If she’d been able to take him out of the equation earlier…

Shoulda, woulda, but didn’ta, ol’ girl.

Troyer was a dangerous man. Even more so now that they had killed Barton and Chrisman. If Troyer was still kicking out there, he would come back firing, whether with a gun or some other deadly weapon. She’d taken his guns from him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t just find another one. Or an effective-enough substitute. How many knives, or machetes, or sharp instruments were lying around out there waiting to be picked up?

“If he was smart, he would have made a run for the boat in your backyard when everything calmed down,” Greg was saying.

Another possibility, and one she was hoping for, even if it meant losing Cole’s boat. If nothing else, it would take Troyer out of her hair.

“Or your Audi,” Greg said.

“My Audi?”

“If he made it into the garage, what’s to stop him from taking it?”

Emily pulled the key fob for the Audi out of her pocket. “This, for one.”

“Oh.” Then, “Can’t he just hotwire it?”

“You’ve been watching too many Hollywood movies, Greg. Most people in this world don’t know the first thing about starting a car without the key. Even if Troyer was a criminal and not an actual deputy, the chances of him knowing how to hotwire a vehicle made after 1999 is so remote, it’s not even worth exploring. There’s a good reason we haven’t heard the car start up yet.”

“Hunh. You know a lot about this stuff.”

“As Cole would say, just enough to get in trouble.”

Greg chuckled.

“I think he’s still in that garage right now, biding his time,” Emily continued. “He’s too smart. He knows that’s his safest play.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

Emily got tired of thinking and talking about Troyer and started to get up. “I’m going to check on Savannah.”

The big man nodded. “Okay.”

She found Savannah curled up on the loveseat on the other side of the room. The duffel bags were piled up on the table in front of her. The girl was sleeping peacefully, which was shocking, given that Emily was wide awake and so was Greg. She wished she could fall asleep that easy tonight, but she had a feeling that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

Emily grabbed one of the bags and put it on the floor and unzipped it slowly, making as little noise as possible so she wouldn’t wake the teenager up. Emily had brought one of the lamps with her and sat it down next to her, before laying the bag’s contents on the floor and inventorying everything she found.

It wasn’t the same bag that Savannah had opened in the dining room, but another one. Instead of the familiar M4 she had seen earlier, Emily pulled out a SIG716 semiautomatic rifle with a nylon sling. Not bad, even if it only had iron sights. She continued rummaging around and found two extra mags for the rifle, both already loaded with 7.62 rounds along with an unopened box of ammo.

There was only one additional Glock inside—a G43 model, just a bit smaller than the ones she’d taken off Troyer and Barton. Emily kept it for herself, having already given Greg one of the handguns. She thought about letting Savannah have the smallest of the three pistols but decided it was probably not a good idea. The only thing more dangerous than an enemy on the battlefield was a friendly civilian who didn’t know how to properly handle firearms.

Emily continued rummaging and pulled out two extra boxes of 9mm rounds. There were also two TASER guns and a box of cartridges for them. She wasn’t sure why the deputies had been dragging these around when they already had a healthy dose of firepower in the pistols and rifles, not to mention the shotguns.

She also found, to her surprise, four more velvet pouches filled with diamonds. They sparkled even in the semidarkness, and she had to ask herself what the deputies thought they were doing with the jewelry if they believed the world had come crashing down and was never going to rebuild itself again. Maybe the fact they took the time to loot the diamonds (she could think of a couple of jewelry stores in a pair of strip malls nearby where they could have originated) meant, in a strange way, that the deputies weren’t nearly as pessimistic about the condition of the world as they had led on.

Or maybe she was just overthinking it. Were they even real cops to begin with? That was still something she hadn’t settled on. They were familiar with weapons, but you could say the same thing about criminals.

Emily tossed the pouches back into the bag and stacked the boxes of ammo on the table. She made sure the magazine in the SIG716 was completely full before putting it back in and slung the rifle. She got up and headed back over to where Greg was, still sitting next to the door. There were two more bags that she hadn’t checked yet, but she’d go through them tomorrow. Right now, she had everything she needed.

The rifle’s weight felt good on her, and she liked the additional Glock in her back waistband. What she wouldn’t give for a gun belt with pouches to store everything in their proper places, though.

“Find anything good?” Greg asked as she approached.

“Police rifle, ammo, and a couple more Glocks in one of the bags.”

“I guess we can always use more guns and bullets.”

“And more diamonds.”

“More diamonds?”

She nodded.

“Geez,” Greg said. “They really did rob a jewelry store, didn’t they?”

“Or two.”

“So you were right; they might not have been real cops after all.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think it matters anyway.”

“You’re probably right. If the world’s gone to shit, who cares about uniforms?”

“Exactly.” She glanced down at her watch. They were creeping up on nine in the evening, a few hours since they made their escape into the backroom. She looked up at Greg. “Anything happen while I was away?”

He shook his head. “It’s so quiet out there. I don’t hear anything.”

“Let’s take turns. You get some sleep, then I’ll wake you at midnight. We’ll do it in three-hour spurts.”

“What about Savannah?”

Emily looked over at the loveseat, the girl hidden on the other side of the backrest. “Let her get as much sleep as she can. She’s earned it. In the meantime, you should go grab some more guns.”

“I’m not that good with guns.”

“You were pretty good with that shotgun earlier.”

Greg’s face paled noticeably. She’d said it without thinking, not realizing that taking another person’s life was a very big deal for people. It had been for her, too, her first time. But that was a long, long time ago.

“I’ve never killed anyone before,” Greg was saying. “I don’t think I’ve even thought of killing anyone.”

“You killed Barnes.”

“Oh,” Greg said, as if he had forgotten all about that. “Shoot, I mean. I haven’t shot anyone before, I guess is what I’m trying to say.”

“First time for everything.”

“For me,” he said, looking across at her, “but not for you.”

“No.”

“You were in the Army.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said you sat behind a desk.”

“I did. But not all the time.”

“You’re an interesting woman, Emily.”

“Am I?”

“Definitely.”

“You should meet my husband.”

“He interesting, too?”

“Very.”

“Then I’m looking forward to meeting him. Because if he’s anything like you, I have a feeling he’s not going to let the end of the world stop him from coming back to you and that baby.”

Emily couldn’t help but smile. “No, I don’t think he will. I don’t think he will…”

Day 3

Chapter 17

Blood.

Thick swaths of it, covering the walls and floor and dripping from sliced and pierced and severed flesh that plastered the back hallway and extended all the way out into the living room beyond.

This was her house. Her dream house.

Right now, it looked more like a butcher shop.

A man with a mustache, his head nearly decapitated but somehow still hanging on by a few stubborn sinewy strands of muscle, had made it halfway to the backroom before he succumbed to his killer. He was covered in thick red blood that appeared more like coagulated black tar in the semidarkness of the corridor.

She kept walking, stepping around the body despite wanting desperately to turn around and head back to the safety of Cole’s room. The only reason she didn’t was because of the heavy weight of the SIG716 rifle in her hands and the need to know what happened last night. She was ready if a psycho decided to stick around all night and lie in wait for her. And it would just be one psycho, because they didn’t cooperate. Put two of them in the same room, and only one would remain standing. That was her advantage.

Emily did her best to pick her way around the puddles of blood but wasn’t entirely successful. The edges of her shoes ended up wet and sticky red anyway as she moved around the man with the mustache.

A woman in a white dress lay on her stomach next to the staircase, a fire ax buried in her back. Something that looked like an ice pick was abandoned near her body. There were two others just behind her. Both might have been men, but all Emily could be sure of was that one was wearing boots and the other was in shorts. Their bodies were badly damaged, torn apart by unknown weapons. A blood-covered steak knife rested between them, next to a machete with a heavily dented blade.

The bodies were unmoving, and had been since last night. The smell of bloodletting filled the air, making her almost gag. She switched to breathing through her mouth as she continued forward, the rifle at the ready.

Come out, come out, wherever you are.

Not that she thought there was a psycho lying in wait inside the house. That would have been a stupid move. Anyone who was still alive would have already gone back into hiding. But it wasn’t just psychos that she was wary of. Troyer was also out there, somewhere. She didn’t think he was still in the garage, though. The man would know better than to push his luck.

Unless, of course, he wasn’t as smart as she’d given him credit for, but Emily didn’t think so.

She kept her senses on high alert, eyes snapping left and right and forward. The only direction she didn’t look was behind her, because she didn’t have to. Greg was back there with the police shotgun. Who knew that one day she’d end up having a home contractor watch her six?

Then again, stranger things had happened. If she had any doubts about that, all she had to do was relive the last three days.

She stepped over the woman in white, careful to avoid what looked like a pair of severed fingers. They were long and delicate, so probably the woman’s, though her right hand was buried underneath her body so Emily couldn’t confirm the theory. Both men next to her still had all their fingers as far as she could tell.

Behind her, Greg’s labored breathing was surprisingly loud as he followed closely behind. Was she breathing that loudly?

No, she didn’t think so.

Probably.

She took another step forward and heard a squishy sound as her shoe came down in a pool of blood. Dammit. Should have watched where she was going. Not that the noise would have alerted anyone still in the house—it wasn’t that loud, even if it did appear incredibly so to her ears—but the sight of blood dripping from the sole of her shoe as she lifted it back up made her a little queasy.

Okay, so more than a little.

Finally, they were in the living room. Emily switched up her grip on the SIG716, forefinger sliding tentatively into the trigger guard and against the trigger. If Cole saw that, he would have chastised her.

“That’s not good trigger finger discipline, missy,” he might say, knowing that she hated when he called her missy, but doing it anyway just to annoy her—and get his point across.

And he would be right. Forefinger in the trigger guard, already rubbing against the trigger, when she wasn’t ready to fire was poor trigger finger discipline. But at the moment she didn’t care. She didn’t even want to think about pulling the trigger when she had to. She just wanted to, well, pull the damn thing and kill whatever popped up in front of her.

There were surprisingly few bodies in the living room. Only two, in fact. One was slumped over one of her couches, a knife buried in his right cheek. He’d bled all over the fabric (It had to be a pristine white couch, too, she thought) and was still dripping blood from his wounds. There was no way she was going to clean any of that stuff off. Or was even going to try.

The other one lay crumpled on the floor in an almost fetal-like position on his side. A pole—it looked very much like the same spear she’d seen used on the Blob last night—buried in his gut, the sharp point exiting the back a good foot. The blood around the man glistened almost brilliantly against the morning sunlight coming through the door.

The door… It was still intact and partially closed. Partially, but not entirely. There was nothing keeping it from being blown open. A slight wind, and it might swing to reveal her and Greg to whoever was standing out there.

But there was no one standing out there. She could tell that much because no one had charged into the house yet. While neither she nor Greg was making a ruckus, it wasn’t like they were being ultra-silent, either.

And no psychos outside.

Or in the living room. (At least, not live ones.)

Or the dining room next door. (Again, at least not live ones. She could still make out the Blob’s body, crumpled up on the floor where she’d last seen him.)

What about the kitchen?

And the garage?

What about Troyer?

Greg might be thinking the same thing when he moved up slightly, close enough that he could whisper, and she could hear him easily: “What about Troyer?”

“The garage,” she said, matching his pitch.

“Let me go first.”

“No—” she said, but didn’t get the chance to finish before Greg hurried across the living room, maneuvering around more blood on the carpet.

Her carpet. She’d picked them out herself. Everything from the color to the texture to the pattern.

Emily sighed and chased after Greg.

Greg’s breathing had increased noticeably as he moved forward in front of her. Loud enough that she could hear as she caught up to him, anyway. Again, she wondered how loud she was breathing. It wasn’t that this was her first rodeo, as Cole would say, but it’d been a while since she’d had to go through something like this.

Something like this? she thought. What something like this? You’ve never been in something like this.

Sunlight poured in through the dining room windows, highlighting more of the Blob on the floor. The man lay where she last saw him, small chunks of flesh and strips of muscle and bone splinters linking him to his severed arm nearby.

And there was Barton, lying facedown on the other side of the table.

Greg swallowed—she didn’t see it, but she could hear it—as he passed the deputy by. There was no starker reminder that you’d taken another human being’s life than seeing the body again, long after all the adrenaline of battle had faded away.

She tried to move on ahead of Greg, but he had picked up speed and was already in the kitchen. She followed, the SIG716 at the ready, but now she’d slipped her trigger finger out of the trigger guard.

Happy, Cole? she thought with a slight smile.

Truth was, the only reason she’d even done that was to keep from creating an accidental discharge and shooting Greg, in front of her, in the back. That was, after all, the main reason for trigger finger discipline in the first place: Friendly fire.

The kitchen was in pristine condition compared to the messes in the dining and living rooms. There were bloody shoe prints on the tiles—more than one, she noticed—and evidence of a fight along the counters—a few of the drawers were opened halfway—but other than that, no hints of a psycho hiding anywhere ready to jump out at them.

The door into the garage was on the left and closed. The piece of lumber Greg had put across it and latched into place was on the floor. If she’d let Greg put up a stronger barricade like he’d wanted, Troyer might not have gotten through so fast and easily.

She was still annoyed at herself for that when Greg made a straight line for the door.

Emily reached out and grabbed his elbow. “Wait.”

This time he did, and looked back at her.

Emily slid the rifle behind her and let it hang off its nylon strap, then drew the Glock from her waist. She made a mental note to relieve Barton of his gun belt before they returned to the backroom. The thought of robbing a dead man might have given her some pause three days ago, but not this morning.

“Emily, I should go in first,” Greg said.

She shook her head. “Between you and me, which one of us has extensive close-quarters combat training?”

He opened his mouth to respond but stopped short.

“Between you and me,” she continued, “which one of us has actually been in close-quarters combat?”

“Does last night count?”

She smirked. She’d forgotten about that.

“Yes, it does,” she said.

He smiled. “Then, both of us. So we’re even—”

No, we’re not, she thought even as she pulled open the garage door and stepped through, the Glock swinging up in front of her.

“Watch my back,” she said.

“Dammit, Emily,” Greg hissed from behind her.

She tuned him out and focused on what was in front of her. It was blinding bright inside the garage because the front door was wide open and morning sunlight flooded the room. That realization made her tighten her grip on the pistol, forefinger twitching slightly against the weapon.

Her Audi was where she’d left it, but its trunk was open, and so was the driver-side door. Troyer had taken whatever he could before he left, including the emergency supplies she’d stowed away from the others.

Serves me right, Emily thought.

And Troyer had left. She knew that even before she moved around the vehicle to get a look on the other side, then peeked into the windows. There were no signs of the man, or evidence that the psychos had gotten to him in here. He’d managed to stay out of the chaos of last night, then, most likely, sneaked out later sometime after that.

Clever little cockroach.

“Emily,” Greg said. He’d stayed behind at the kitchen door with the shotgun as ordered, watching her with an obviously worried face.

She hurried toward the light.

“What are you doing now?” Greg hissed.

She didn’t answer. Instead, Emily kept waiting for a psycho to jump out from around the corners and attack.

But none did. Maybe they saw the gun in her hand. Or Greg’s. Or—

She stopped thinking and grabbed the garage door handle with one hand and gave it a hard yank. The rollers did all the rest, the 12-gauge steel slamming shut with a loud clang! Emily quickly slid the lock into place.

Then she turned and all but ran back, around the Audi, and toward Greg. She hated the sensation of moving around in a suddenly dark room, but it couldn’t be helped. And it wasn’t like she had very far to go.

She breathed a covert sigh of relief as she stepped back through the kitchen door, and Greg closed it behind her, then put the piece of lumber back where it belonged.

“No Troyer?” he asked.

“No. But I think it’s safe to say he’s still out there.”

“Maybe he made a run for the gate.”

“Maybe.”

“But you don’t think so.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. That’s the problem: I don’t know. And I hate not knowing.”

She looked past the dining room and into the living room on the other side.

“What?” Greg asked. “What is it?”

“The second floor. I need to see what’s happening out there.”

“Okay, so we’ll do that.”

“No.”

“No? What do you mean, no?”

She went back into the dining room but stopped and crouched next to Barton.

“Emily, what are you doing?” Greg asked. He sounded slightly…what? Disturbed?

She slipped off Barton’s gun belt, then stood up and slipped it around her waist. She put the Glock into the empty holster, then transferred the spare magazines she was carrying into the available pouches. “I need it more than he does.”

“Oh,” Greg said, before swallowing (loudly) again.

She unslung the SIG716 and headed into the living room, where Emily gave the windows a longer look than the first time she’d walked through. Most of the barriers were down, and just about anyone could climb in if they wanted to.

And the front door…

She hurried over to it, stepping over the dead psycho, and pushed it closed. She slid the deadbolt back into place and turned to Greg, waiting behind her.

“I need you to stay down here next to the stairs to cover me with that shotgun. Last thing I want is for one of them to sneak up behind me while I’m up there.”

The big man shook his head. “Emily…”

“We can’t risk both going up there and leaving the first floor undefended. Someone has to stay down here.”

“You. I’ll go up and take a look.”

“No.”

She walked past him and toward the stairs.

“Emily!”

She stopped and looked back. “It’s my neighborhood, Greg. I know it better than you do. I’ll have a better understanding of what’s happening out there.” She softened her eyes and gave him a pursed smile. “Besides, it’s more dangerous down here. Don’t you agree?”

He didn’t answer her for a moment. Emily wondered if he actually believed her or was sniffing bullshit.

Instead of waiting for him to decide, she turned and jogged up the first couple of steps. “Watch my back!”

“Emily!”

She stopped again and glanced back.

He sighed. “Be careful.”

She nodded. “You too.”

Then she turned and continued up, feeling very much like a stupid teenage heroine in slasher movie. But unlike that stupid heroine, Emily had a SIG716 semiautomatic rifle and a gun belt with a Glock in the holster.

Chapter 18

Dogs. There were dogs in Arrow Bay.

Not just one dog, or two, but six that she could see from the second-floor master bedroom. Dogs by themselves wasn’t a strange sight in the area, but six of them, and moving in a pack? She’d never seen that before.

Emily made absolutely certain to stay out of view, peeking past the curtains down the street from one side of the window. When she saw everything she could from that angle, she crawled to the other side and did the same up the street, in the direction of the front gate.

Not that she could see the gate all the way from up here, but there wasn’t anything that hinted at activity in the area. The parts of the fence around the subdivision that she could see were still intact, but that wasn’t unexpected. It was much easier to scale a ten-foot wall than it was to knock them down. Unless, of course, you used a car as a battering ram, but even then…

So where had the dogs come from? Had they jumped the fence? All ten feet of it?

Three days ago, she might have thought that impossible. Dogs were agile, but they weren’t that agile.

Or had someone opened the gate after all, and the animals came in that way?

She tracked two more dogs as they appeared from up the street. Dark black fur and possibly the same breed as the other six she’d spotted earlier, on the other side.

Two more for the pack?

A flicker of ice-cold sensation ran down her spine even as her skin crawled. It wasn’t the sight of the animals that did it, but the way they were moving: Casually, as if they owned the place. They were clearly dogs, but at the same time…

There was something wrong with them. She didn’t know what, but she could feel it. There was something not right with them.

She kept watching the animals, trying to understand why they made her so uneasy. She’d been around dogs before, even if she’d never owned a pet in her life. It wasn’t like she was scared of animals. She’d been around enough of them to know the majority of them were more afraid of you than you were of them.

So why were these dogs giving her goose bumps?

She watched the two from her left getting closer.

Then closer still.

They were big—she couldn’t quite tell their heights from her angle—but they looked like Labradors, or some kind of species within that family. Short dark black fur with a single white stripe that ran down their foreheads, all the way to their snouts. She couldn’t make out collars around their necks, so they weren’t pets. Unless, of course, they’d shaken the shackles of pethood, but that possibility was unlikely.

The animals stopped at Don Taylor’s house next door to hers and looked toward it. Long and hard and intensely.

Emily slinked back farther from the window, pressing her body against the wall even though she was certain the dogs couldn’t see her all the way up here. Hopefully they couldn’t see her all the way up here.

She focused on the nearest animal—it was a little bigger than the other one—as it continued down the sidewalk, then stopped in front of her yard and glanced over.

Then the animal lifted its head toward her window.

Emily pulled back from view, her heart pounding in her chest while her fingers gripped the SIG716 tightly. A sudden surge of adrenaline rushed up and down her spine.

There’s something wrong with that dog…

She didn’t understand it. Why was she hiding from dogs? She had a rifle and a pistol. She could shoot it easily if she had to—

The boom! of a shotgun blast snapped her out of her thoughts.

It had come from inside the house.

From the first floor.

Greg.

Greg!

Boom! as another shotgun blast rang out.

That was followed by a long, piercing scream that filled the air and echoed throughout the house, all the way up to where she was on the second floor. He wasn’t shouting out her name or anything that even resembled words.

It was just a scream.

A pained, terrified scream.

Greg!

Emily was running through the bedroom before Greg’s screams had even faded completely. Suddenly, the SIG felt a lot heavier than its supposed 9 to 10 pounds. There had to be 15 pounds added when she wasn’t looking, because why else was she moving so slowly?

She burst through the doorless entry and into the hallway.

Another boom! of a shotgun blast from below her.

She wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. The fact that Greg had fired again meant he was still alive and kicking. But that he’d fire again at all meant he was still in danger.

Hold on, Greg, hold on!

Emily reached the stairs and turned, the rifle rising to take aim in case she saw something on the other side that needed to be shot.

There was, but it wasn’t what she’d been expecting.

It was a dog.

A big black Labrador like the ones she’d seen walking around outside her house. Maybe even one of the same ones. It was hard to tell because they all looked alike—big and black with a white stripe on top.

Except the ones she’d spotted on the sidewalk hadn’t entered her house yet.

Or had they? What happened to the ones she’d seen earlier? Had they sneaked their way inside the house? Had those gotten the drop on Greg?

Greg.

Where was Greg? She couldn’t hear him anymore. There was no scream or shotgun blasts from downstairs.

There was just the dog—

Oh, fuck me.

Suddenly Emily knew why the animals had creeped her out so much. She’d been convinced there was something wrong with them.

And now, looking at the dog at the base of the stairs, she knew why.

It stood directly in the path of sunlight that stretched all the way from the front door, and was covered in blood. Emily hadn’t seen it before from the safety of her master bedroom window, but the blood on the animal wasn’t fresh. It was old and dry and clung to its skin like patches of mud.

And then there were its eyes. They were red.

Bloodred.

It’s infected. Shit. It’s infected!

It was standing next to the woman in the white dress lying at the bottom of the stairs, looking toward the back hallway—toward the backroom—when she first spotted it. Now, it turned fully around, and snarled up at her. The sound was like something coming deep, deep from the pit of its gut. Spit dripped from its fanged teeth as its mouth opened wider, and wider.

The thoughts Don’t shoot the dog. It’s just a dog, crossed her mind a split second before she did just that.

She shot the dog in the head—the pop! of the gunshot was impossibly loud—and the animal slumped to the floor.

You shot a dog. I can’t believe you just shot a dog!

But it wasn’t just any dog. It had bloodshot eyes. It’d turned. Just as Don Taylor and George Benson and Mrs. Landry had turned. The dog wasn’t a dog anymore; it was a psychotic creature that had—or one of its pack had—killed Greg while he was down here, protecting her.

Greg.

Where was Greg?

Shadows appeared against the wall as two more Labradors appeared. They were coming from the direction of the backroom. (Greg. Did they get Greg?) Thin lines of blood stretched from their eyes like spiderwebs, matting their short dark hairs. Infected, just like the first one.

They stood around the one she’d shot, seeming to almost sniff it. One of them bent down and nuzzled at the unmoving heap of black fur as if to wake it up. If they were even the least bit interested in the dead psycho woman in white, she couldn’t see it. They were almost indifferent to her presence.

Emily resisted the urge to shoot the two new dogs. She should have, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Shooting the first one had already left her feeling queasy. Why was it so much harder to kill a dog than a person? She hadn’t felt anything at all when she’d killed Chrisman the day before.

And yet, the dogs didn’t act infected. They weren’t running around the way Don Taylor had. Or George Benson. Or Mrs. Landry. They didn’t look crazed. There was a calmness about them, just as they’d appeared to her when she first spotted them outside the house, that sent shivers up and down her spine.

One of the two new dogs finally looked up the stairs and snarled at her. Accusingly, as if she was guilty of committing a wrong. And maybe she was, by killing the first one.

The other one joined in seconds later.

Then, more shadows appeared in the hallway wall, this time coming from the living room.

More dogs.

Jesus Christ. How many of them are there?

The two visible Labradors launched up the stairs, saliva flitting from mouths that opened wide to reveal amazingly sharp white fangs.

Emily fired on instinct, without bothering to aim—too fast!—and missed!

Her round zipped between the two animals and pekked into the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

She stumbled back, and this time, took aim.

They were already halfway up and moving with impossibly blazing speed. She didn’t know dogs could move that fast. Was this another effect of the infection? Were dogs not supposed to move this fast?

Emily had no idea. She didn’t own dogs. Had never wanted to own one, and for the most part wouldn’t have been able to tell one breed from another. She only recognized the Labradors because they were the most popular dog breed in America.

Her first aimed shot struck the closer of the two dogs in the side of the neck. It twisted and fell down, blood arcing from the wound and splashing the steps. She didn’t wait to see if it would stay down, because the second one was still coming.

Emily’s instinct was to turn and run, but she didn’t, because she wouldn’t make it. The animal was too fast, and there was a ferocity in the way it leaped up the stairs, the low growl coming from its wide-open mouth seemingly getting louder and louder like some hellish demon rising from the pit of its soul.

The dog jumped the last few steps at her, almost as if it could fly, and she thought, Yeah, I’m pretty sure dogs aren’t supposed to be able to do that!

She squeezed the trigger again and again—heard a couple of peks! as some rounds missed the target and struck the first-floor hallway wall beyond—even as she backed up. Blood splashed the front of her shirt as the animal spun in the air, made a yelping sound that belied its bloody appearance, and thwumped back onto the stairs.

It’d landed between two of the steps, before its suddenly limp body began sliding down like some kind of flesh and blood Slinky, except this one was matted with bloody black fur.

Emily paused to catch her breath, the SIG rifle feeling lighter in her hands. She’d fired probably half of the rounds in the magazine and was thankful she had the two spares in the pouch, hanging off the belt she’d taken off Barton earlier. Something Cole always said about there not being such a thing as having “too much ammo” came to mind.

She was still gathering herself, wondering what had happened to Greg, when the shadows she’d seen earlier, cast against the wall below, neared the base of the stairs.

One—two—four more black Labradors appeared around the first dead dog she’d shot. They stared up at her, past the second dead and third dead animal, which had settled in the middle of the stairs. The second one hadn’t gotten back up after all. Blood ran in rivulets from their wounds and slithered down the steps. She didn’t know dogs could bleed so much, and so red, too.

The four newcomers growled at her almost in sync, saliva foaming around their sharp teeth. Unlike the first three, fresh red drops were dripping from the chins of these four new ones, and she thought she could see something pink and squishy clinging to the fangs of the two closest ones.

And the liquids were…

Blood.

Fresh blood.

Greg’s? Was it Greg’s?

God, she hoped it wasn’t Greg’s…

There were numerous ways the dogs could have gotten into the house, but how had they gotten the drop on Greg? She’d left the contractor downstairs with a shotgun. He would have been able to see the animals coming.

Wouldn’t he?

Yes, he did, because he’d fired. If she could see the bloodshot eyes on the animals, then so could Greg. Or maybe he wasn’t sure? Maybe because the animals weren’t acting like psychos, he’d hesitated until it was too late?

The dogs didn’t bark, but their growls continued to grow until they were all she could hear.

Did dogs do that? Could they do something like that?

Dammit, she wished she knew more about—

The first one began bounding up the steps.

Then the others followed.

Emily turned and ran. She forgot all about Greg and concentrated on staying alive.

I’m sorry, Greg! I’m sorry!

There was one obvious destination: The master bedroom at the end of the hallway.

Take it? Or—

No. The master bedroom was a bad idea. The only door left was the bathroom’s, with Greg and the others having taken down the rest to barricade the first floor openings. But she didn’t like the idea of being stuck in there with no place to go and dogs waiting for her outside. There was a small window at the top, but unless she could shrink to half her size, she wasn’t going to be able to squirm through it.

So where, then?

It wasn’t Cole’s old office, either. It was still damaged from the fight between the contractors from days ago. There was nowhere to go once she was inside. And besides, she had just run past it, so that was a moot point.

She could hear them coming, pawed feet pounding on the stairs behind her. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to look back.

She didn’t want to.

If she couldn’t hear their running footsteps, she could hear their growls.

And they didn’t bark. She didn’t know why, but they didn’t bark. That, maybe, was the freakiest part of all of this.

Then she saw it—coming up in front of her.

A rope dangling from the ceiling just in front of the wide-open master bedroom door.

The attic!

Emily slung the rifle, thankful for the nylon sling, and jumped for the rope even though she didn’t really have to. She was tall enough to stand on her tiptoes and grab it. But at the moment, it felt like the thing to do.

She got a firm grip and pulled, doing her damnedest to ignore the quickly-approaching sounds of rabid footsteps behind her.

Don’t look back, she told herself. Don’t look back!

The attic door swept down and opened, and Emily grabbed the stairs and unfurled it before the ladder had fully extended. She jumped up onto the first step, nearly lost her balance, but managed to snatch onto the two railings on the sides to keep from falling off.

Loud snarling from behind her, along with the stench of wet (blood-matted) fur.

Don’t look back! Don’t look back!

She didn’t look back and instead climbed up, up, up.

Emily bypassed the last three steps and catapulted upward, landing in a pile of insulation. She scrambled out of it, ignoring her suddenly itchy skin, and twisted around. She leaned over the opening and grabbed the closest step and began pulling.

It wasn’t easy because attic stairs were not designed to be closed from the inside. It was the other way around. The door fought against her even as she strained to lift it up.

A blur of black fur and blood-red eyes as one of the Labradors leaped onto the stairs, somehow managing to land on two of them with its two front legs. It began scrambling up, up, up—

Emily unslung the rifle, but instead of wasting time trying to shoot it—that would have cost her a second or two that she didn’t have—she struck the animal in the snout with the buttstock. The dog reared back and lost its grip on the steps before tumbling back down.

It landed with a loud thoomp! on top of two other dogs waiting below. The animals were writhing on the floor, scrambling to get up, when she turned the SIG716 around and stuck it down the hole and pulled the trigger.

Two of the dogs twisted and let out pained yelps, while the other two took off.

Emily didn’t stop shooting until the two Labradors directly below her had stopped moving, pools of blood spreading around their black-shaped bodies.

She felt sick to her stomach as she slung the rifle again, then grabbed the attic door and pulled it shut with a loud, echoing thoom!

Chapter 19

When she first met Cole, he was in trouble. Big trouble. For Cole, though, that just meant another day at work. She’d saved his life but had gone against orders from the higher-ups to do it. It had been an impulsive decision on her part, but she’d felt it was something she had to do. The other option was to let him die, and she couldn’t do that. Only later did she realize the reason: She was in love with him, even if she couldn’t admit it at the time.

Not that Emily ever told Cole about that moment of personal crisis. She wanted him to think she’d saved his life because it was in the best interest of the country. Cole had no love for country, God, and apple pie. After the Army, he’d gone private almost right away, going from one conflict to another around the world.

Ironically, her path was similar to his in some ways. Emily had grown up a patriot and to a family of patriots. Meeting Cole for the first time was purely accidental, and she hadn’t thought she would ever see him again. She was wrong, as it turned out. They had a complicated history, one that could fill out a book or two. That was, if the writer could get a high enough clearance to tell the tale.

Emily thought about Cole now as she sat in the dark attic, his child growing inside her. She’d never wanted to be a housewife, just as Cole had never wanted to be a “respected” husband. But here they were, doing just that. She wasn’t sure who had given up more—her or him. Maybe they’d done it both equally, but she couldn’t be sure. Cole had never shown any regrets; then again, he was always good at hiding his emotions.

Mostly, anyway. He always did say she was the only one who could read him like a book. That wasn’t exactly true, but she did know his tells. Not just in the things he did, but in his voice and facial tics. If they played poker, Emily was pretty sure she could beat him, if not on every hand, then most of them.

But that was her skill, after all. She analyzed and executed.

Step one: Know your objective.

Step two: Gather intel.

Step three: Formulate a plan.

And finally, step four: Execute that plan.

Cole was often the instrument that was used to execute those plans. He was the operator. The shooter. He was who you sent into places where his life was secondary to the objective. It wasn’t like anyone ever put a gun to his head and forced him to do any of it. He knew his role, and he thrived in it.

And she loved him.

She hadn’t expected it, but it had happened nonetheless.

She loved him dearly, and she would stay alive for him, even if she didn’t know if he was still alive, somewhere out there.

And she had one less resource now because Greg was dead.

Probably.

No, there was no probably about it. He was dead. If he weren’t, she would have heard from him already. Greg hadn’t started screaming only to stop because he’d found safety from those dogs.

And that was exactly what had caused Greg’s screams to begin with.

The dogs.

Big black Labrador dogs with bloodshot eyes. Their presence was cause to rethink everything she thought she knew about what was happening out there. Things were becoming more complicated—not that they hadn’t been already.

As if things weren’t already hard enough…

And they were still down there. The two surviving dogs. Maybe even more of them, but it was hard to tell in the darkness of the attic with only her heartbeats and slightly labored breathing to keep her company. Memories of Afghanistan, the last time she found herself in such a situation, sprang to mind. She’d gotten out of that one, but it hadn’t been easy.

This wasn’t going to be easy, either, from the looks of it.

How many more dogs were there? She’d spotted eight from her window, but who knew how many of them were in the pack but hadn’t shown themselves?

She could hear the soft—painfully soft, at times—movements of paws below her. Directly below her. However many there were, they were moving around as if they wanted her to know that they were still down there. As if she couldn’t already smell the stink from their blood-matted furs.

And they did smell, like dogs that hadn’t been bathed in a while. Was that the result of the blood on them or something else? Did dogs smell like this normally?

She didn’t know. She’d never owned dogs. Had never wanted to own one. They were always too much work. Too much money and effort and trouble.

…Just like a baby.

Emily sat in the darkness and put her hand on her stomach. The last few days hadn’t given her any obvious pregnancy belly, but she could feel the changes in her body. Cole’s unborn child was inside her, and it was her job to keep it safe. And that was what she would do: She would keep it safe even if she had to shoot every dog in the world to do it.

She leaned down until she was flat against the attic door and pressed her ear against the wooden slab that separated her from her hunters. It was easy to hear their movements below; they weren’t being quiet about it, either. Again, almost as if they wanted her to know they were down there.

Greg was gone—she didn’t have any evidence to support that with absolute certainty, but it was better if she didn’t wait for him to come rescue her—so that left Savannah. Emily just hoped the girl was smart enough not to open the backroom door when she heard Greg’s screams and gunfire.

Emily sat back up and spent the next few minutes looking over the attic. Now that her eyes had somewhat adjusted to the semidarkness, she could see more of it.

Insulation covered the floors, but there was a raised platform in the center that she climbed onto now. It gave her a good overview of her surroundings, including the snake-like electrical lines, conduits, and flexible air conditioner ducts that ran to various parts of the house.

But it didn’t matter how long she looked; there was no other way out of the attic. The only entrance and exit was the same door she had come through, the same door with however many infected Labradors circling underneath, waiting for her.

Dogs. I’m being hunted by dogs.

What the fuck is happening to the world?

That last thought made her chuckle to herself.

Fucking dogs.

She was reminded of that book by Stephen King. Cujo. It was about a killer dog.

Why am I scared of dogs? I have a rifle, for God’s sake. Fuck Cujo.

She didn’t just have a rifle but two spare magazines for it. Counting the half-loaded mag already in the weapon, that was more than enough bullets.

Emily hoped that was enough bullets anyway as she crawled back to the door and sat next to it. She placed the barrel of the SIG716 against a random part of the door and pulled the trigger.

Pop! as the bullet fired into the floor below, the gunshot echoing loudly in the closed confines of the attic around her. Her ears rang for a few seconds before settling back down.

Emily leaned down and peered through the inch-wide opening she’d created in the slab of wood.

Two of them—maybe even the same two that had survived when she fired down earlier—sat on their haunches, side by side, looking back up at her. There was a bloody patch down there, impossible to miss. It was evidence of the other two dogs she’d managed to kill earlier. Except their bodies were gone.

What had happened to the two dead dogs? Had the others taken them away? Why would they do that?

She stopped thinking about what she couldn’t see and focused on what she could: Bloodshot eyes watching her back, accompanied by a slow but growing snarl. Their mouths opened slightly, revealing white fangs and dripping saliva. Pieces of flesh and what might have been clothing clung to their teeth.

It was unsettling, looking into their eyes. They didn’t look right—they didn’t feel right—and she didn’t need to be a dog person to know that. Whatever had happened to them, it hadn’t affected them the same way it had her neighbors. She could see the evil in their eyes, but it was a calm evil, not the bloodlust she’d spotted in Don’s. The fact that they didn’t bark but only let out that slow, grinding growl made it, somehow, even worse.

These animals were different from the human psychos. How? That was the question.

Then again, there were a lot of questions she couldn’t answer right now.

Two dogs. That’s all there were.

Maybe.

Were there more than two down there? Would they be smart enough to hide the rest of the pack and try to draw her down, only to swarm when she was within reach?

That was a bit of a stretch.

Or was it? How much did she know about what had happened to these animals? Had they gotten smarter? Or were they always smart and had just developed a killer instinct? Certainly, she didn’t think Don Taylor had gotten any smarter. He’d just lost all of his inhibitions. There was a big difference.

How much chance was she willing to take that there were only two of the animals down there? They clearly could see her eyeball peering through the hole she’d made with the bullet looking down at them.

It was unsettling.

It was goddamn unsettling.

Emily pulled away from the hole as a shiver ran up and down her spine. Her first instincts were to open the door and spray the second-floor hallway with the SIG716. Empty the entire magazine and slap in one of the spares.

But she didn’t, because it felt too easy. It was just too easy. Almost as if the animals were trying to get her to do just that.

Did that make sense?

Did any of this make sense?

No. Definitely not.

She sat in silence for a moment, trying to figure out the best course of action. She couldn’t stay inside the attic forever. It was too hot, for one; there were already beads of sweat on her forehead and dripping down her cheeks. Her clothes were already growing damp. Beyond that, eventually she’d need to eat. And drink. And a hundred other necessities—

A ray of sunlight coming through a tiny hole in the ceiling slightly to her right.

Emily glanced over and smiled. How had she missed it the first time?

Then she thought about her husband, Cole, and how he would have a fit had he seen it because it had to be the result of shoddy construction. There was nothing Cole hated more than shoddy workmanship. His mantra was, “If you have one job to do, you better damn well do it right!”

Whoever had put the ceiling together hadn’t done it right, because there was a hole along one of the slanted sides that allowed sunlight to pierce into the attic. She hadn’t seen it before because she hadn’t looked closely enough.

If she couldn’t go down, then maybe the way out was up.

Chapter 20

The SIG716 was down to less than half a magazine, and she spent the remaining bullets on a patch of roof, punching hole after hole into it. She attempted to make a rough square outline, putting the first four bullets where the edges should be, then began connecting the dots along the sides and top. When she ran dry, she put in a second mag and continued the work, each loud pop! like booming thunder inside the dark attic.

A small piece of the roof finally caved in with the second mag’s fifth bullet. A few inches, but not enough to climb through. It was, though, evidence that her plan was working and the part of the ceiling she was trying to carve a makeshift window in was showing signs of success. There was now enough light pouring inside that she could see a large and bright halo around a part of the attic, making moving around easier.

She emptied the second magazine and replaced it with her third and final one. Instead of wasting it, too, she went into a slight crouch under the target area and began striking it with the buttstock of the rifle. It took a half dozen blows, but finally the section broke free and heavy shingles slid down around her feet, revealing a square hole about two-by-two-foot wide.

Emily took a step back, waiting to see if anything would fall through the opening. What were the chances the dogs could climb up the side of the house and make it to the roof? Probably unlikely.

After about a minute of nothing happening, she walked forward, slung the rifle, and stood on her tiptoes. She had made sure to attack the roof at a low enough point in the slope to make breaking through it more efficient. That also made grabbing the sides and pulling herself up and out much easier.

She poked her head into the sunlight and breathed in fresh air. Her body was still tingling from contact with the insulation, but a cool breeze from the lake behind her house seemed to wash most of that discomfort away.

Emily glanced all around her before pulling the rest of her out of the attic and onto the rooftop, then made sure she got solid footing against the angled side of the roof before standing up. Thank God she had put on sneakers, otherwise she would have been running around up here barefooted and slipping and sliding her way with every step.

There was a slight wind coming in from the lake to her left and she shivered a bit, but the sun was bright and warm and more than enough to counter the close proximity to the water. She thought about all those mornings walking out into her backyard and staring at Bear Lake, sometimes watching retirees in kayaks fishing next to her dock. They were always so bundled up because out in the water, the temperature was different than on land.

The shingles were slippery and prickly at the same time, which was an interesting feeling as she made her way up the slope of the roof. She kept herself slightly bent forward because she didn’t completely trust her body to maintain a constantly stable balance. All it would take was one wrong step and she would tumble down to the ground below.

And what was down there? Maybe friends of the two Cujos waiting on the second-floor hallway, or maybe the Cujos themselves. Would they still prowl around the hallway if they knew she was already gone? Did they know she had climbed out of the attic? Anyone could have heard her gunshots, especially since she had fired nearly two full magazines.

For a moment, she thought about Savannah. The girl would have definitely heard the gunfire. Hopefully she hadn’t left the backroom, even if every instinct in her body told her to flee. Emily wasn’t sure she could have stayed perfectly still in there if someone was firing guns inside the same house with her.

Then again, she wasn’t a scared seventeen-year-old girl.

She kept going up the incline, always making sure of her footing first before extending the other leg. The rifle slung over her back was heavier than before, but she knew that was just all in her mind. The SIG716 was around ten pounds, not nearly big enough to pull her down as she went up the incline.

Emily had seen a lot from her master bedroom’s second floor window, but standing up on the roof of her house was something else entirely.

“Jesus,” she said softly to herself as more of the world was exposed to her.

The subdivision of Arrow Bay looked different from this vantage, and that difference only increased as she slowly, cautiously made her way up to the highest point of her roof, her sneakers crunching and constantly threatening to slide against the slippery shingles.

She finally reached the very peak and stopped.

From up here, she could see all of the neighborhood, along with the subdivisions of Pebble Creek to her left and Dove Sand to her right, across the waters of Bear Lake that separated the three waterfront communities. The homes around here were silent and still, as if everyone had simply picked up and abandoned their expensive properties without telling her.

Of course, she knew that wasn’t the case. The people around here were either dead, infected, or hiding. Or a combination of the three. Maybe not just from each other, but dogs, too. How many of the animals were roaming around out there? How many were hunting in packs?

She focused on the country road that connected Arrow Bay with the rest of the city, and the world beyond. It was empty, with no signs of cars anywhere. On the other side was a wall of trees, the beginning of a vast woodlands area that separated this quiet section of the world with the noise and pollution of the city. She had driven through those woods to get to civilization often in the first few weeks of moving here, and it never ceased to amaze her how empty and devoid of life it was. At least until stores and homes began popping up on the other side. But there were long stretches where those things weren’t present.

The complete lack of activity on the waters of Bear Lake was more obvious than it had been from inside her house. There were no jet skis or boats moving around, which was something you could never say about Bear Lake. People didn’t move here just to look at the water, after all; they wanted to enjoy it.

If she had any doubts that the world had been irrevocably changed when Barnes tried to kill his friend Greg, and her neighbors went on rampages outside her house, there was no doubt now as she looked around her at the stillness. The absence of anything resembling life among the homes and streets and lake was a striking reminder that the world was not the same anymore.

Where was everyone? How could the world have simply…stopped?

But that was exactly what had happened. People had gone mad, the phones and power went down, and state and federal governments were AWOL. Was there anyone out there besides her and a scared 17-year-old girl hiding in Cole’s room?

Where was everyone?

She turned completely around until she was staring into the east, toward the heart of the city. Cole would be there when everything happened, trying to get home to her with Donnie in the Mercedes.

Cole.

Her Cole.

In all the chaos and violence and psychos, Cole would have found a way to survive. He had to, because she didn’t know what she would do if he didn’t.

Emily put her hand on her stomach again. Cole’s child. She had to safeguard it, no matter what—

A loud, piercing scream ripped across the wide-open skies.

Emily hurried to the other side of the roof and looked out toward the single gate in and out of Arrow Bay. It was a good two to three blocks from where she stood, but thanks to her new vantage point, she could just make out two figures rushing toward it.

Someone was making a run for freedom.

She had no idea who the two figures were, but she could have told them they weren’t going to make it. There had been three of them to start with, but the third was on the ground as a large figure pummeled them with something that looked like a baseball bat. The other two seemed stuck between continuing to run for the gate and stopping to help, but they must have quickly decided there was nothing they could do, because they kept on running.

They weren’t the first three to attempt to escape by foot, she saw. There were cars parked in front of the gate—at least one of them had to be Pete’s—but two others that she could see. And dark black forms that could be bodies lay unmoving between them and the way out of Arrow Bay.

A flurry of black fur as the dogs entered the scene.

The psycho with the baseball saw them first and stopped smashing his victim’s head just long enough to look up. The big man—Emily was too far away to know if it was one of her neighbors or not—began to flee, but it was too late. Two of the dogs were on top of him before he could take his third step.

“Faster,” Emily said quietly as she watched the two escapees jump and began scaling the ten-feet-tall gate. “Faster. Faster!”

They were doing a good job of climbing, but it wasn’t good enough. Two more black dogs appeared out of nowhere and lunged at the closest one. A woman. Emily only knew it was a woman because she screamed as she was pulled down by fangs that ripped into her clothes and the skin underneath.

The other climber—possibly a man—stopped halfway up to freedom and glanced back.

“No, don’t stop,” Emily said.

The man didn’t listen and jumped down. Something sharp gleamed in his hand as he attacked the dogs while they ravaged the woman on the ground. He got one of them off her, but a second later he was on the ground.

The dogs were big black Labradors. She could tell that much by their color and shape.

Growling sounds from somewhere below her, outside the house.

Emily hurried to the edge and looked down just in time to catch two—three—four of the Labradors as they rushed out of the house and flew down the driveway. They sprinted up the street, making a straight line toward the front gate.

How did they know what was happening up there? She hadn’t heard anything that sounded like barks. And yet, the Cujos that had been waiting for her were racing to join the others in the attack.

… the Cujos that had been waiting for her were racing to join the others in the attack…

This was it. Her chance to get off the roof!

She scrambled back to the opening she’d shot into the ceiling and eased her way through it. She landed inside the attic and crab-walked to the door, where she leaned against it and peered through the hole she’d made earlier.

An empty second-floor hallway greeted her.

The only evidence at all that there’d been dogs down there was the bloody patch the ones she’d shot earlier had left behind. That, along with the bullet holes she’d put into her floor.

But no dogs, dead or alive.

No dogs!

Emily slung her rifle and pulled the attic door up and open, then pushed the stairs open. She didn’t climb down right away but stuck her head through the square hole first and glanced around.

Empty!

She breathed a sigh of relief and began climbing down—

Then she was falling and crashing to the floor, the smell of dog blood invading both nostrils as she tried to breathe. It didn’t help that the sharp points of the SIG716 rifle seemed to have jammed into every vulnerable part of her back and side when she landed. She might have screamed but couldn’t be sure.

A figure hovered over her, grinning down.

Troyer.

“Figured you’d try to come down after those dogs took off,” the deputy said.

Almost the entire right side of his face was caked in day-old dry blood, but there was nothing wrong with his eyes—they were just as deep blue as the last time she’d seen him.

“Troyer,” she managed to get out.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” he said, just before he punched her in the face.

Chapter 21

“You’re not a real cop, are you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“The fact you’re stealing diamonds, for one.”

“Cops can’t steal diamonds?”

“They’re not supposed to, no.”

“Have you looked outside? People are doing a lot of things they’re not supposed to these last few days.”

Even as he said it, she didn’t believe him for a second. Troyer—or whatever his real name was—couldn’t even lie to her with a straight face. He did it with a noticeable smirk as he wiped the blood off one half of his face with a soft plush pink towel. Hers. He’d bypassed Cole’s, either because he wanted to rub it in or he liked the color. She was guessing it was probably the former.

They were inside the bathroom of the master bedroom. It was the only room on the second floor that still had a door, and Troyer had wanted to get her out of the open as soon as possible. She wasn’t sure how long he’d lingered around her house, waiting for the Labradors to leave, but he wasn’t taking any chances now that they had, and he’d gotten his opportunity.

The deputy tossed the towel into the sink and checked himself in the mirror. There was enough light coming from the small window over the shower stall that she could see he wasn’t injured all that badly. At least it wasn’t a life-threatening wound. It’d looked worse than it was when she first spotted him, after he’d grabbed her off the attic ladder and slammed her into the floor. Something had glanced off his temple—something hard and strong enough to break skin and, possibly, dent his thick skull (or she was hoping for some of the latter, anyway)—and left him bleeding.

He had found duct tape in the room that Greg and Barnes had been working on and was using a box cutter to slice off a small enough piece to cover up the gash. He winced, and she thought, I hope that hurts, asshole.

But of course she didn’t say it out loud. Right now, she didn’t want to antagonize Troyer. He had the upper hand, and she…was stuck sitting in the corner of her bathroom with her hands duct taped behind her back as blood dripped down her face. Dripping, not gushing down, so she could be thankful for that, if nothing else.

Her nose hurt, but she didn’t think it was broken. Troyer’s fist would definitely leave a mark, but at least she could be thankful he hadn’t struck her in the stomach. If he’d known she was pregnant, would he have done that, just out of spite? She wouldn’t put it past the man.

Emily licked at some small trickles of blood that had gotten into her mouth and swallowed it. Her blood was nothing compared to the dog blood that covered almost her entire backside from when she’d landed in the second-floor hallway. The air was filled with the stench of blood—hers, dogs, and God knew who else’s.

She stopped thinking about how she looked and smelled and instead focused on Troyer. He was, right now, the most dangerous thing in the entire house.

“How did you get away?” she asked.

Troyer picked her pink towel back up to dab at the area around his improvised bandage. “Ingenuity. Guts. And a whole lotta luck.” He turned around, tossing the towel into a nearby waste bin, before leaning against the counter. “Met that scrappy neighbor of yours again.”

“Don?”

“Uh huh. He took a swipe at me. Bugger was waiting outside the garage the entire time.” Troyer touched his duct-taped temple. “If I’d been a second slower, he’d have gotten me good. Fast motherfucker, that guy.”

“But you escaped.”

“Barely. He was occupied with other psychos. I took the opportunity to skedaddle outta there.”

Troyer had been armed with a hammer when he ambushed her. It was hooked into his belt like a sword. There was blood on the steel head and splashes on the wooden handle. She thought it looked familiar.

“That’s my husband’s,” Emily said.

He smirked. “Mine, now.” The man picked up and slid the Glock G43 he’d taken off her into his front waistband, then snatched the SIG716 from the nearby wall and turned it over in his hands. “This is mine, too. Thanks for bringing it back to me.”

“You’re welcome.”

He grinned. “What happened to the other guy, anyway?”

“What other guy?”

“The big guy.”

Emily didn’t answer right away, but she thought, Greg? Is he talking about Greg?

Then: He was downstairs on the first floor. He was attacked by the dogs. I saw blood and flesh in their mouths.

She had thought all of those things had meant Greg was dead. Wasn’t he? Then why hadn’t Troyer spotted the body when he snuck up the stairs after the dogs abandoned the house?

Emily studied Troyer’s face, trying to figure out if he was playing with her.

He’s not. He really doesn’t know what happened to Greg.

So what did that mean? Was Greg alive after all?

“I don’t know what happened to him,” Emily said.

“What about the girl?”

“What about her?”

“Where is she? In the backroom?”

Emily shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Yeah, she’s in the backroom. With the big guy, right? So they let you come outside on your own?”

“Why don’t you go ask them?”

“Because I’m asking you, smarty pants.”

“I don’t have a clue.”

“Of course you don’t.” He scrubbed at some dry blood clinging to his uniform and over his name tag.

“What’s your real name?” Emily asked.

“Troyer.”

“Really.”

He chuckled. “No.” He gave up trying to clean the name tag and peered across the small bathroom space at her. “Bowman. Henry Bowman.”

“What happened to the man whose uniform you stole, Henry Bowman?”

“He didn’t need it anymore.”

“He’s dead…”

“Him and pretty much everyone else at the police station.”

“You’re a convict.”

Bowman grinned. “Can’t be a convict if I haven’t been convicted yet. Not my fault the court system went kaput when all of this happened. I still maintain my innocence.”

“Of course you do.”

“Of course I do,” he said, and chuckled again.

“Barton and Chrisman. They’re not cops, either?”

“Nope.”

“More innocent convicts.”

“Hell if I know. I just met them the day this went down. Kinda glad I didn’t get to know that Chrisman guy all that well. Seemed like a bad seed, that one. Good thing you shot him dead; saved me the trouble of having to do it later. Barton, on the other hand… He wasn’t all bad.”

Emily thought that made perfect sense. It’d struck her just how unemotional Barton (or whatever his real name was) and Bowman had been when they found out she’d killed Chrisman. While both men had questioned her story, she hadn’t really sensed any urgency or, indeed, commitment. In fact, they were so unbothered by it that they were willing to leave later even before Chrisman’s body was in the ground.

Thieves. They’re just thieves.

At least Bowman was. She had no clue about Chrisman or Barton. Chrisman, especially. That man still gave her the creeps, even dead.

More importantly, though, Bowman was a thief with her rifle and sidearm. It didn’t help that she was being restrained with duct tape behind her back. He’d left her legs unbound, but that was probably because he had every intention of walking her out of the bathroom and to their final destination. Or her final destination.

“Get up,” Bowman said now, gesturing with the rifle.

Emily did, if slowly and clumsily. She had to brace her back against the wall and push up with her legs. “Where we going?”

“The backroom.”

“What’s there?”

“You know what’s there.”

“Your diamonds.”

“That’s right. You’re going to get the girl and the big man to open the door for me. Failing that, I’m going to have to shoot my way through.”

“No, you’re not.”

He squinted at her. “And why wouldn’t I?”

“Because the first time you squeeze that trigger, those dogs will come running right back here. Not to mention the psychos hiding in the area, waiting for their chance. Maybe even Don. I’m sure he’d want to finish what he started this morning.”

“Maybe so, but unfortunately for your neighbors and those dogs, I got this now,” Bowman said, smacking the barrel of the SIG716.

Yeah, he has a point there.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Can I stop you?”

“No.”

“Then ask already, so we can get this show on the road.”

“What exactly are you going to do with those diamonds?”

“Huh?”

“The diamonds. What are you going to do with them? I asked before, but you didn’t answer me.”

“Because it was a stupid question.”

“Was it? Is it, still?”

“Of course. They’re diamonds. Duh.”

“So?”

“So?” He squinted at her again, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend where she was going with this.

He doesn’t get it, Emily thought, wondering if her first impressions of Bowman was wrong after all. She’d thought she had seen intelligence in those eyes, but looking at him now, struggling to understand her…

“You saw what’s going on out there,” Emily said. “Psychos. Rabid dogs. God knows what else is waiting for you beyond the gate. Do you really think diamonds matter anymore? Or money? Or gold?” She nodded at the rifle in his hands. “That’s all that matters now. That and the Glock and the ammo for them.”

He opened his mouth to immediately respond…but nothing came out.

Instead, Bowman stared at her, and she thought she could hear the gears clanking and crunching around inside his head as he attempted to process what she’d said. Either he’d never thought about it, even after she’d broached it last night, or…

No, that was it. He’d never thought about it. The only thing he’d thought about was getting his hands on those diamonds. That was it. It’d never occurred to him what he would do with them afterward.

I was wrong. He’s just another dumb asshole, after all.

She didn’t know why she was so surprised. As far as she knew, Bowman was a lowlife criminal, and when the opportunity presented itself he defaulted to his natural instincts: Steal. It had never even occurred to him that there was no point anymore, that diamonds might have been a girl’s best friend once upon a time, but in the world they were living in now, it didn’t do diddly squat for survival.

“Fuck,” Bowman said, and leaned back against the counter.

He lowered the rifle until it was lying across the front of his legs as he continued to mull over what she’d said. Not that Emily thought she could make a move for the weapon. He still had both hands on it, and she had none to fight him with. The best she could hope for was to catch him off guard by barreling into him.

And then what?

No, there was no opportunity to get the upper hand. She had to wait for the window to open up.

Or maybe she didn’t need to. Bowman clearly didn’t give a damn about Barton or Chrisman’s deaths. He’d come back here simply for his ill-gotten jewels. Punching her earlier was just out of spite, she knew that now, but from everything she’d seen of him since, he seemed to have gotten that out of his system.

So what was left?

Step one: Know your objective.

Step two: Gather intel.

Step three: Formulate a plan.

And finally, step four: Execute that plan.

Step one was easy: Stay alive.

Step two was becoming increasingly clear: Bowman hadn’t thought through his crime.

Step three was formulating itself: Determine if Bowman could be convinced not to kill her.

And as for step four…

“You can have them, if you still want them,” Emily said. “You can walk me to the backroom, and I’ll get the kid and Greg to open the door for you. If you want diamonds, you’ll get your diamonds.”

“Bullshit.”

“What bullshit?”

“You expect me to believe you’ll be that cooperative?”

“Why not? I don’t care about diamonds. Besides, they aren’t even mine. I don’t care where you got them. The owners are probably dead, like you said. Or running around out there trying to murder each other.”

Emily could see it in his eyes: He was starting to come around.

Step four…

“Like you said, Troyer—or Bowman, or whatever your name is—I’ve seen what’s out there. I’ve been fighting it the last three days. Not just for me.” She put her hand on her stomach. “I’m pregnant.”

His eyes widened in surprise.

“Six weeks,” she said, deciding the truth was probably easier to convince Bowman of her pregnancy since she wasn’t showing yet. “The only thing that matters to me is getting my unborn baby through this alive. Do you understand?”

He didn’t answer. But he also didn’t look away from her.

She read his face: She was close.

“Diamonds aren’t going to help me or my baby get through this,” Emily continued. “If you think it’ll help you…” She shrugged. “Hey, that’s your business. I just want to stay here and stay alive until my husband comes back. So you see, Bowman, I mean it when I say, I don’t care what you do. Or what’s happened until this point.”

“Hunh,” Bowman said.

Just one word: Hunh.

She smiled. “So let’s make a deal.”

He grinned. “A deal?” He held up the rifle. “You see this? This means I don’t make deals. This means I tell you what to do and you do it.”

Emily sighed. It was probably a bit too dramatic, but she wanted him to know she wasn’t scared of him, even though she was. Not for her own life, but her unborn child’s.

But truth wasn’t what was, it was what you could sell. And right now, she needed to sell another story.

“Bowman,” Emily said.

“What?” he said curtly.

“Think about this.”

“About what?”

“You want the diamonds, and you don’t have any interest in staying here. I don’t want the diamonds, and I do want to stay here.”

“Go on…”

“So I’ll get you your diamonds. And everything else in the backroom you want.”

“I want all of it.”

“Seriously?”

“Why not? They’re mine.”

“Some of them are Chrisman’s and Barton’s, or whatever their real names are.”

“They’re dead, so what’s theirs is mine now.”

“Is that how this works?”

“Absolutely.”

“Bowman…”

“What?” he said, not trying to hide his annoyance with the way she was talking to him.

Emily smiled inwardly. That was the reaction she had been hoping for.

“You can’t carry everything,” she said. “You’d be an idiot to try. Take any more than you need, and you’ll just slow yourself down. Do you really want to be slow out there, with those dogs and psychos running around?”

Again, he didn’t answer her nearly as fast as he could have.

Finally, he said, “You got a point.”

Of course I do, you idiot.

But Emily said, “So let’s go downstairs and get you your stuff. And whatever else you think you want to take with you.”

He grinned at her. “What if I might want to take the girl, too?”

She almost rolled her eyes. Instead, she did a half-roll. “Really?”

“What?”

“She’s seventeen and just lost her boyfriend. And you want to drag her along with you? You really think she’s going to be of any help when you get attacked out there?”

“Fuck.”

“Exactly.”

He smirked at her. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”

“No, but I know what I want—for me and my baby to survive this—and I’m going to help you do whatever you want, so you can leave me be.”

“Here? In this house? You’re really intent on staying here?”

“Yes.”

“You sure about that? Those dogs might come back. You don’t exactly have lots of doors and windows anymore, you know.”

“Doesn’t matter. I have the backroom.”

“How long can you last back there?”

“Long enough with the food and water you won’t be able to take with you, because they’ll become a burden if you tried.”

“You have seen your first floor, right? All those bodies down there?”

“I’ve seen it.”

“And you still want to stay here?”

“I’ll redecorate when all of this is over.”

He chuckled. “Goddamn, woman. You got an answer for everything, don’t you?”

Mostly, she thought, but said, “Do we have a deal?”

He shrugged and lowered his rifle back down to lay it across the front of his legs. “Sure. I guess.”

She turned slightly to show him her bound hands. “Can you cut me loose?”

“I don’t think I will. Not until we’re downstairs and in that backroom.”

“Suit yourself.”

“You’re damn right I will,” he said, and turned around. “Now, stay back while I make sure there’s no fucking dogs out there. Fucking Cujos were all over this house of yours earlier.”

She chuckled.

He glanced back at her. “What’s so funny?”

“Cujos.”

“What about it?”

“That’s what I immediately thought, too. From the Stephen King book.”

“There was a book?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I only saw the movie. It kinda sucked. I’m guessing the book was better?”

“That’s a given.”

He grunted. “I guess great minds think alike.”

“Or something.”

He smirked. “Smartass, huh? You always this much of a smartass?”

Or that was what Bowman was going to say, anyway. He got You always this much of a smart out, but before he could end it with ass, the door in front of him crashed open and a figure lunged inside and barreled into Bowman and knocked him back.

Emily just barely managed to sidestep as the two figures—the attacker driving Bowman literally back, back, back—rushed past her and slammed into the shower stall at the back. If the glass door had been closed, they would have smashed right through it, given how fast they were both moving—or Bowman was being driven.

Something that looked like a gardening hoe flickered against the streak of sunlight coming in through the small window as it flashed in the air.

It was Don Taylor, and he was maybe four or five seconds away from gutting Bowman like a fish.

And when he was done with Bowman, it would be her turn…

Chapter 22

…it was Don Taylor, and he was maybe four or five seconds away from gutting Bowman like a fish…

…And when he was done with Bowman, it would be her turn…

She had two choices that she could see: Help Bowman, or run. It was a decision she had to make within seconds. In another place, another time, Emily would have thought through every possible scenario and come to a workable solution.

Step one: Know your objective.

Step two: Gather intel.

Step three: Formulate a plan.

And finally, step four: Execute that plan.

But she wasn’t in another place, another time, and she just didn’t have the time.

She wasn’t even sure when she made her decision. Maybe it was about the same time she rammed her left shoulder into her neighbor Don, knocking him sideways and off Bowman, even as the former CPA was about to plunge the already-blood-covered end of his hoe into the fake deputy. She would have used her hands, but stupid Bowman had bound them behind her back with duct tape. Emily made a mental note to let him know that after she saved his life.

If she managed to save his life. And hers.

Don didn’t see her coming and lost his balance, more out of surprise than her initial impact, and careened sideways and crashed down to the back corner inside the shower stall.

Emily whirled on Bowman, spilled on the floor on his back. He was holding onto his stomach with one hand, blood seeping through his fingers. Pain covered his face.

“Get up!” Emily shouted at him.

Bowman’s eyes snapped from his stomach and to her face. His expression told her he didn’t quite understand what she was doing—or why she was screaming at him.

“Get the fuck up, Bowman!” she screamed. “Get the fuck up now!”

He did, scrambling to his feet—

And so did Don.

Emily turned and backed up as the forty-something man picked himself up from the tiled shower floor, his eyes—bloodshot, tendrils of red wetness dripping down his cheeks—zeroing in on her.

Uh oh. I think I made him mad.

Don’s clothes were splashed with blood from the legs of his tan golf pants all the way up to his collared white shirt. More red speckles had dried around his neck, and the parts of his exposed chest that she could see where someone—or maybe something—had torn loose the top two buttons.

“Bowman,” Emily said.

He didn’t respond, but she could see him trying to get up, using the back wall of the shower stall for support, out of the corner of her eye.

“Bowman!” she shouted.

Screaming Bowman’s name seemed to snap Don out of it, and instead of moving toward her, he spun and went for Bowman again. It helped that the jewel thief was closer to the psycho and there wasn’t much room in the stall for them to completely ignore one another.

Bowman was reaching for his holstered pistol even as he tried to steady himself against the wall when Don sank the hoe into his neck. Bowman let out a bloodcurdling scream as the first half of the by-now-dulled point of the almost-5-inch stainless steel blade pierced flesh.

Then Don shoved Bowman into the wall and pushed the other half of the blade in.

Clack! as the Glock clattered to the stall floor next to Bowman’s twitching legs.

For a second—just a second—Emily thought about diving for the gun, but that would mean getting too close to Don. It wouldn’t have taken her neighbor very long to notice her, spin, and use that gardening tool on her next.

Instead, she turned around even as Bowman continued screaming, letting out a shrill that befitted a terrified young woman more than a grown man who had, she was sure of it, killed more than a few psychos on his way to Arrow Bay. She couldn’t get her hands on Bowman’s Glock, but there was something else he’d lost that she could recover.

There, near the door that was now hanging off just one of its hinges.

The SIG716 rifle!

Emily ran for it—

And nearly did a header as her legs slipped on the suddenly wet floor.

Wait. How’d the floor get wet?

Oh.

Blood. Bowman’s blood, from when Don had gotten him in the beginning. There was a long, jagged trail of it leading from the door all the way to where Bowman and Don were struggling against one another now, inside the shower stall in the back.

It didn’t help that her hands were still bound behind her, and achieving any kind of balance was difficult. She slid forward and purposefully aimed for the counter.

Got it! as she collided with the smooth edge, and remained upright.

She gathered her breath, then took a second to glance back over her shoulder.

Bowman had gone silent. Probably because he was dead. His eyes were wide open, and he was staring up at nothing as Don struck him in the cheek with the hoe, the blade sinking easily into Bowman’s flesh and pekking off the bone underneath.

Don didn’t seem to care that Bowman was no longer fighting back. He pulled the gardening hoe out and struck again, and again, and again. There was a large gathering of blood on the floor around both men’s feet, the liquid flowing smoothly toward the drain in the middle. Most of it was coming from Bowman’s neck and face, but plenty was joined by the wounds in his stomach.

She stared at Bowman. She wasn’t sure why. She’d seen dead men before, sometimes up close and personal. More times than she cared to admit. Certainly, more times than any normal human being should have to see, never mind a housewife in the suburbs.

And yet, watching Don brutally slice what was left of Bowman’s face, Emily almost gagged.

But she didn’t.

Somehow, she didn’t.

Get ahold of yourself.

Get ahold of yourself!

She did, and turned, and slipped and slid her way toward the SIG716 across the bathroom. It seemed to have moved farther away from her since the last time she spotted it. Was that possible? Had she kicked it? Had—

Wait. Her arms. Her arms were still bound behind her back.

Goddammit, Bowman!

What was she going to do now? How was she even going to pick up the rifle? She supposed she could grab it from behind, but how was that going to work with both hands fastened tightly against one another?

Then, a fatigued grunt from behind her.

She glanced back, even though she already knew what it was and shouldn’t have. But she couldn’t help herself.

God, she should have resisted.

Don, glaring at her, his face and more of his polo shirt covered in a fresh, almost sparkling coat of Bowman’s blood. There was a stoic look on his face that belied the heaving chest underneath his torn clothes. His cheeks and nostrils flared, his irises seeming to pulsate. The latter made more blood drip, drip, drip to the floor from his eyes.

Then the corners of Don’s mouth tugged sideways and carved upward in a Joker-esque grin.

Emily had been acquainted with killers that enjoyed the killing more than they should have. She was looking at one of them now. Don Taylor didn’t have to butcher Bowman, but he had done it anyway, and enjoyed every second of it. Every single second of it.

“Don,” Emily said.

His head cocked slightly to one side at the mention of his name.

Did he still remember who he was, she wondered? Or was he just curious that she’d spoken instead of turning and running, which was exactly what she had done?

“Don,” she said again.

He grunted. Was he still capable of talking? Did he even understand her?

“Where’s Nancy?” she asked.

His eyes bulged, and more drops of blood flicked loose. That told her he recognized the name. He remembered his wife.

“Don’t do this,” she said. “Don, don’t do this.”

For a second—maybe two seconds, possibly three—her neighbor didn’t do anything. He stared at her, his head still slightly cocked to one side as if he’d forgotten how to right it.

Something small and metallic skidded across the floor.

What…?

A knife. It was a pocketknife.

And it slid along the wet blood between Don’s spread legs and toward her, perhaps even aided in its forward momentum by the liquids gathered on the bathroom floor.

Don looked down and stared after the knife, maybe just as mystified as Emily was at what she was seeing. Where had it—

Bowman. He was still alive.

How was he still alive?

The man sat against the shower stall wall, blood dripping from maybe a dozen or so holes in his face and neck and chest and…

Where didn’t he have blood coming out of him?

And yet he was alive.

Somehow, he was still alive, and staring between Don’s spread legs across the bathroom at her.

And he had thrown the knife.

Was it because she’d told him she was pregnant? Was that why Bowman had, with his dying breath, decided to do the right thing at least once in his life? Not that she really knew the man’s history, but she didn’t think Bowman had much good karma stored up.

Thank you, Bowman. Thank you!

As if he could hear her inner thoughts, a ghost of a smile appeared on the man’s lips. Then again, it might not have been that at all since Bowman’s face was so shredded and covered in blood and hanging flesh that it was barely recognizable. He might have been frowning at her, and she wouldn’t have been able to tell.

But she felt gratitude anyway. He hadn’t had to do it. He hadn’t had to do any of it, but he had.

Thank you, Bowman, she thought again. Thank you for my baby’s life.

Then Don was turning. Slowly, as if he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Emily didn’t blame him. She couldn’t, either.

Then her neighbor walked back toward Bowman and lifted his blood-covered weeder again.

Now now now!

Emily fell to her knees and skidded forward and turned around. She fumbled along the floor, her fingers suddenly covered in thick red blood.

The knife. Find the knife!

Bowman had tossed her a lifeline, and she needed to take advantage of it. Because poor Bowman wasn’t going to last forever. He wasn’t—

The thwack! of Don’s hoe breaking through flesh.

Emily blocked it out.

Ignore it!

Thwack! as Don struck again.

Don’t look! Cut the duct tape! Cut the duct tape as if your life depended on it, because it goddamn does, woman!

Thwack!

She grimaced at the sound and fumbled along the pools of blood with her fingers—found it!

Emily opened the blade, not giving a damn as the sharp edge pricked her skin and drew some of her own blood to mix with Bowman’s. Poor Bowman. The thief didn’t have any reason to save her—or to try to save her, anyway—but he had done it. Even though he should be dead.

But he wasn’t. Somehow, he still wasn’t.

Not yet, anyway.

That wouldn’t last.

That wouldn’t last for very long.

The click! as the blade came out of its housing and Emily angled the tool and began cutting. She was on her knees and could have turned around, but she didn’t. She didn’t need to. All she had to do was listen to the thwack! of stainless steel going into flesh.

Over and over.

And over.

…and over…

Her hands were free!

Finally, she allowed herself to look back.

Don was picking himself up from the shower stall floor. There wasn’t much of Bowman left. In fact, his head was almost decapitated and hanging off his neck by a few strands of tough, sinewy muscle. His eyes, thankfully, were closed and couldn’t stare back at her.

Then Don turned.

She got up just far enough to twist around and dive for the rifle even though the soles of her sneakers were slipping, and she didn’t get nearly the running start or jump she’d hoped for. She landed woefully short of the SIG716.

Sonofabitch!

Emily hopped onto her hands and knees and began crawling toward the weapon. She would have gotten up on her feet if she thought it would have helped, but it wouldn’t have. She probably would have fallen right back down because there was too much blood on the floor.

Closer…

Closer…

There!

She snatched up the rifle and spun around until she was on her back, just as Don ran toward her. The maniacal grin on his face hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it might have gotten wider as he closed in for the kill.

Emily pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

What?

The rifle didn’t fire.

There wasn’t even a click.

There was just…nothing.

Why didn’t the rifle fire?

No.

It wasn’t fair.

No, no…

She’d gotten to the gun.

No, no, no…

Despite the odds, she’d made it. She was holding the SIG716.

NO NO NO NO NO!

She wasn’t sure if Don knew the weapon had failed to do what it was designed for or if that was just the same pure, murderous glee on his face he’d had since all of this began. She was only sure of one thing:

Don was coming and he was going to kill her, and he was going to enjoy every second of it—

Her neighbor stopped suddenly, and his eyes shifted from her to—something else behind her.

What’s he looking at?

A black shape, dark matted fur bristling in the stale bathroom air, appeared above Emily’s head. She would have ducked if she could, but she didn’t have to, because she was already on the floor flat on her back.

The sight was followed by a low, rumbling growl, like something ancient from the pits of hell, rising back up to Earth.

Chapter 23

She wasn’t sure who was more surprised—Don or her.

Or maybe both of them were.

After all, it wasn’t like either one of them expected a big black dog to fly through the open bathroom door. Emily wasn’t sure who the dog was targeting, but it ended up on top of Don, clawing at his face as its impact drove him back, back, back until he fell back through the shower stall and on top of Bowman’s lifeless body.

Emily stared, not quite sure what to make of what she was seeing. The dog had saved her life. Not that it’d done it on purpose, she was sure of that. Didn’t it see her? She was definitely closer to it than Don, and yet it had gone straight for her neighbor.

Why? Why did it—

Who cares! Get up! Get up right now!

She scrambled to her feet, gripping the SIG716 in her hands (Work, damn you! Why won’t you work?) the entire time, even as she slipped and slid some more on all the blood coagulating on the floor. Not just Bowman’s blood, now, but also Don’s and some of hers.

And the dog’s, too!

The animal was bleeding as Don stabbed at it with that ninja gardening hoe of his. She could hear the stomach-turning thwap-thwap! each time Don drove the blade into the animal, even as it clamped down on his left forearm. Its claws groped at her neighbor’s face, talons ripping what was left of his shirt off his body and going for the flesh underneath.

It was a big black Labrador, like the ones she’d spotted outside; then later, insider her house. One of them had come back.

…one of them had come back…

…and it wasn’t alone…

Emily spun around, the breath flooding out of her as she lifted the rifle, prepared to use it as a blunt weapon.

There were two of them, and they stood in the bedroom just beyond the bathroom. Bloodshot red eyes glared at her, that eerie calmness that seemed to emanate from their core, sending a shiver up and down her spine. They didn’t bark or growl, but their mouths opened slowly, slowly, while saliva dripped from fanged teeth.

Bloodied fanged teeth.

Not their blood. No. These animals had come back from the front gate, where they’d gotten their share of human prey.

Now they wanted more.

Her.

She didn’t have to look back to know that Don was fighting for his life against the Labrador. That one had looked bigger when it was flying through the air like some kind of heatseeking missile. Then again, maybe it was her angle—on the bathroom floor, looking up—and it wasn’t that big.

Or maybe it was, and the two she was looking at now were its children. Or younger siblings. Or—

Oh, who the hell cared? It didn’t matter one whit how these two were related to the first one. The only thing that was of any concern to her was their bloodied eyes and the fact they were standing in her path.

And she was armed with a rifle that didn’t work. She didn’t know why it didn’t work. She hadn’t had the chance to do anything to find out. Was it bad ammo? Or maybe gunk buildup near the firing pin? A trigger malfunction, possibly? It could have been a weak firing pin spring.

It could have been anything, and everything.

And right now, none of it helped her.

Still, Emily turned the rifle and pointed it at the dogs and pulled the trigger anyway.

Nothing.

Not a goddamn thing.

Fuck me, she thought as the first dog opened its mouth wider, letting out that familiar low, rising growl, just before it launched at her.

She switched up her grip on the SIG716 and swung it like a baseball bat, striking the dog in the side of the head as it was almost on top of her. She’d stumbled back at the same time to give herself more room, mindful of all the blood on the floor.

Don’t slip! Don’t slip now, or you might not be able to get back up!

She didn’t slip, thank God, and halted her backpedaling as the dog landed on the floor, then slid along the wet length until it crumpled against a wall.

Instead of waiting for it to pick itself up—there was no way one blow to the head was going to stop the damn thing—Emily took off for the second one, still standing outside the bathroom as if waiting for its turn.

She saw something that might have almost looked like surprise on the third Labrador’s face as it cocked its head slightly while watching her run toward it. She guessed it hadn’t expected her to do that.

“Good doggy! Good doggy!” she wanted to shout out, but of course didn’t. It would have been absurd to do so. Besides, she didn’t think the dog was a good doggy in the first place.

The animal started moving to intercept her when Emily swung again and caught it, like the first one, in the head. It flew to the side, letting out a startled yelp as it did so, before landing on the floor near the foot of her bed.

Emily ran for the door, her heartbeat sledgehammering against her chest. She was almost at the door when Emily gave in to curiosity and glanced back over her shoulder.

Don was still in the bathroom, on the floor. He was straddling the big Labrador while stabbing the animal repeatedly with his hoe. If he even knew she still existed, he never glanced back to find her.

A blur of black fur as the first dog she’d struck dived on Don’s back. Her neighbor let out a wild scream as he staggered to his feet and attempted to shake the animal off him, but its mouth was clamped down on his shoulder, and it refused to let go.

The third dog, already picking itself up, was turning toward her.

Bad doggy! Emily thought and almost laughed.

Almost.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she stopped and turned around, and lifted the SIG716, again as a bat, to fight it off.

Except the Labrador didn’t run at her. It stood there, blood dripping from red eyes that glared at her almost accusingly.

“What?” Emily said to it.

The animal responded by turning around, then running across the bedroom…

…and toward the bathroom, where Don was still trying to throw the second dog off him. The first one was on the floor, an unmoving black form that was as dark as it was red. It was either dead or close.

But if Don thought he’d won, he was sadly mistaken, because now he had two dogs to deal with. They might have been smaller than the first one (she was sure of that now), but it was still two against one.

Sucks to be you, Don, Emily thought as she turned and fled the bedroom.

She all but lunged through the doorless entrance and into the hallway, as if she were trying to break through an invisible forcefield. Of course, that was silly, but at the time it’d seemed like the thing to do.

Run!

Keep running!

She did, jumping over the patch of blood on the floor, just underneath the closed attic. She kept going, passing Cole’s old office to the right. The room was forever frozen in time, part Cole’s office and part baby’s room. Barnes’s body still inside, as lifeless now as the last time she’d seen it. Flies were already gathering around the contractor. How many more were downstairs circling the dead psychos?

My dream house has turned into a slaughterhouse, Emily thought as she ran.

She slowed down into a fast-walk halfway to the stairs, keeping both eyes forward and her ears open for sounds of anything coming from behind her. How long would it take Don and the dogs to kill each other? If she were lucky, they would do just that, leaving both lying dead in a pool of blood inside her bathroom.

Her bathroom.

Inside her master bedroom.

Within her dream house.

She sighed. When she agreed to retirement with Cole, this wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind: A house full of bodies and blood.

But here she was anyway, with nothing—

An elongated shadow struck the wall as its source came up the stairs.

It took half a second for Emily to decide what to do, not that she really had much of a choice. She didn’t know who was coming up, but she already knew what was on the floor with her—two dogs and one psycho. The person coming up the stairs could be dangerous too, but it wasn’t like she had a choice.

The barrel of a gun appeared before the person holding it. The weapon began turning.

Emily ran forward before the barrel could turn completely. She aimed for the pistol with the SIG716’s buttstock but got both gun and the hand holding it. The bang! as the gun discharged accidentally, the loud gunshot easily drowning out the scream of whoever was holding it.

The gun itself flew out of the shooter’s grip and clattered to the floor.

Home run!

Well, not quite, but good enough.

Emily lunged for the gun, snatching it—a Glock—up even as its previous owner fell. Emily somehow managed to remain on her feet as she skidded forward, all the while turning to face her would-be shooter.

“Savannah?” Emily said.

The teen girl half-kneeled and half-clung to the second-to-last steps up the stairs while cradling her right arm. She was staring up at Emily, looking miserable and in pain, and more than just a little bit confused.

Emily hurried over and helped the girl up. “Are you okay? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Greg,” Savannah said.

“What about Greg?” Then, “He’s alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“He looked alive when I left him.”

“Where did you leave him?”

“The backroom.”

Emily took a quick step back up the stairs and glanced down the hallway to make sure neither the dogs nor Don were creeping up on her while she was preoccupied with the teenager. There was no one back there. Not yet, anyway. Most of the bedroom, and the entire bathroom inside it, was hidden by turns.

“Come on,” she said as she turned and headed down the stairs with Savannah.

The teen was still cradling her hurt arm. Emily had swung as hard as she could, not knowing who she was swinging at, and wouldn’t have been surprised if Savannah’s wrist was broken. The poor kid’s face was in pain, her teeth clenched like she was doing everything possible not to scream out in agony.

As they took the steps cautiously, Emily couldn’t avoid the bloody prints. Shoes and dog paws. She couldn’t remember if they’d been on the second floor, too; she’d been too busy running to look down. Savannah had managed to avoid most of the mess when she was navigating upward just minutes ago—

The dogs. The ones she’d shot earlier. There had been two of them on the stairs and a third at the bottom.

But all three were now gone.

Emily stopped and stood still for a moment, trying to decide if she was going crazy.

“What?” Savannah asked. “What is it?”

“Where are the dogs?” Emily said. “I shot three of them earlier. Where did they go?”

“Dogs?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t see any dogs. I thought I would, after what happened to Greg, but I didn’t see any when I came outside.”

Emily looked over at the teenager. “Not a single one?”

Savannah shook her head. “No. Why? Where are they?”

Maybe I am going crazy, she thought.

Of course, she knew better.

She continued down the stairs, before asking Savannah, “How’s your arm?”

“I think my wrist is broken.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. I almost shot you.”

“But you didn’t.

“I almost did.”

“But you didn’t.” She stopped again in the middle of the stairs. “Stay here.”

“What?” Savannah said, suddenly alarmed.

“One second.”

“Don’t leave me!”

“I’m not. I just have to make sure.”

Emily hurried down the rest of the stairs before the teen could protest. She stopped three steps from the bottom and leaned down and around the turn to take in the first floor.

Empty.

…except for the blood in the hallway that led to the backroom. There was a lot of it, too. Way, way too much to allow her to believe that Greg could still be alive somewhere in there.

“Emily?” Savannah said from behind her. Or whispered. Maybe squeaked.

“Let’s go,” Emily said.

As the teen ran down to join her—making too much noise for Emily’s liking in the process—Emily looked toward the front door, the Glock in her hand. She’d slung the SIG716, not wanting to get rid of it just yet. If it was just a malfunction, then she could fix it later when she wasn’t in the middle of a do-or-die situation.

The front door and windows were as wide open now as they’d been when she was last down here with Greg. There were more bloody paw prints on the floor, the fresher ones coming from the driveway outside. The dead psychos lay, or in some cases draped, where she last saw them. For a moment she had visions of the dogs eating the dead, but if they were, then they hadn’t finished their meal, because the psychos looked mostly intact to her.

Mostly, anyway.

She turned and led Savannah to the rear hallway, stepping around the bodies inside it. She took a moment to observe them but couldn’t find anything that looked like teeth marks. So the dogs weren’t eating them? Then why were they attacking humans?

For that matter, why were humans attacking each other?

The kill, she thought. They’re doing it for the thrill of the kill.

Just like the humans…

She concentrated on the backroom door in front of them.

“You don’t know if Greg’s still alive?” she asked Savannah.

The teenager shook her head.

“How bad was he?” Emily asked.

“Pretty bad.”

Emily didn’t think the girl was exaggerating. After all, there was a lot of blood in the back hallway, and not all of it belonged to the dogs she’d shot or the psychos that had bled out last night.

It didn’t take long to reach the door. Emily tried the lever, but it wouldn’t budge.

Locked.

She sighed, then banged on the metal frame with her fist, praying that Greg was still alive on the other side, because if he wasn’t, then they were stuck out here with dogs, psychos, and God knew what else she still hadn’t seen yet.

Chapter 24

Greg was still alive, thank God, and he opened the door for them. Emily wasn’t entirely sure how the man was even up on his feet, because he looked like death warmed over. Or maybe it was just the dimmed lighting in the room, with only the LED lanterns to keep it from becoming completely pitch black.

No, that wasn’t it. Greg just looked terrible.

How is he still alive? she thought as she entered with Savannah in tow.

He was wearing new clothes that she recognized immediately as Cole’s. The hiking slacks and shirt were from a closet in the back of the room, both of which looked one size too small for the bigger-framed contractor. Greg had used the gauze tape from the first-aid kit to make a somewhat respectable sling for his right arm, the limb itself wrapped in a huge bundle of whatever bandage was left.

“Jesus, Greg, you look like how I feel right now,” Emily said as she pushed the door closed behind her.

The heavy steel clanked into place, and the locks spun home, the sounds of them catching like music to her ears. The door was solid and would easily keep out the dogs. It had already, if she wasn’t mistaken. Even the psychos wouldn’t be able to get through. A tank might, but as far as she knew, there wasn’t one out there right now.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Greg said. He gave her a half-smile. Or tried to. What came out was more pain than genuine.

“What happened?”

“Dogs. They got the jump on me.” He shook his head. “Stupid. Getting picked off by friggin’ dogs.”

“You didn’t get any of them?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe nicked one or two, but there were too many of them at once, and…” He paused for a second. “I wasn’t sure what was happening. I mean, they’re dogs. How do I shoot dogs?”

Why not? Emily thought. I did.

She said, “Let me look at that arm.”

“It’s okay.”

“Let me look anyway.”

“Emily…”

“That wasn’t a request, Greg.”

He sighed. “Yes, ma’am.”

She led him back to the sofa, where they sat down, and Emily took a look with one of the LED lights sitting nearby. She slowly unfurled the gauze from his left arm while Savannah absently paced the room nearby, occasionally glancing over at the door.

Emily had noticed a big pile of bloody rags in the corner. That, she guessed, explained why there hadn’t been a lot of blood on the floor. Someone—likely Savannah—had taken the time to wipe them. Not all of them, probably, but under the current light conditions she’d done a good enough job that Emily couldn’t readily spot the mess.

“What happened to your nose?” Greg asked her.

Right, her nose. She’d forgotten all about that.

“Bowman came back,” she said. “He surprised me, then gave me a couple of shots as a how-you-do.”

“Who’s Bowman?”

“Troyer. His real name’s Bowman.”

“Oh. What happened to him?”

“My neighbor Don found us in the bathroom upstairs while Bowman was interrogating me about his gems.”

Emily glanced over at the duffel bags stacked on the table to her left. A couple of the felt pouches with the diamonds inside were visible among all the other stuff that, to Emily, were more valuable right now—like guns and ammo.

“Don killed Bowman,” Emily continued.

“Was he actually a deputy?” Greg asked.

“No. He was a thief who was in the police station when everything went down. He just took advantage of the opportunity.”

“So you were right.”

“I guess I was.”

“You have good intuition.”

“Or maybe I’m just naturally paranoid.”

“That must help in your old line of work.”

“It doesn’t hurt, no.”

“Wish I was a little more paranoid. Then I might still have an arm.”

“Is it that bad?”

“Ever had the Jaws of Life clamping down on your arm?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Well, it’s no fun, let me tell you.”

“I’ll just have to take your word for it.”

Greg winced when she pulled the last layer of gauze off his arm to reveal the wound. Or wounds. There were teeth marks from his elbow all the way to his wrist. More than one dog had gotten their mouth around his forearm. He’d been lucky that one of those dog’s fangs hadn’t broken an important vein, or he might have bled out in the hallway instead of somehow making it back in here.

“Anywhere else?” Emily asked.

“No, just the arm. I guess I got lucky.”

I wouldn’t exactly put it that way, she thought but said, “Yeah. It could have been worse.”

“A lot worse.”

“How did you make it back here?”

“Again, mostly luck. Something was happening outside the house at the same time, and a couple of the dogs took off. I only had two to deal with, and I was able to fend them off with the shotgun. They’re like the psychos; crazy, but not stupid.”

“And you didn’t get any of them?”

“No. That’s bad, right? I mean, I couldn’t even take down one of the suckers.”

“You did the best you could.”

“Barely,” Greg said, frowning. “Did you get any of them? I heard shooting later.”

“A couple.” She nodded at the SIG716 she’d tossed on the floor. “With that. But it stopped working, and I had to use it as a baseball bat later.”

Emily paused.

“What?” Greg said. “What is it?”

“The bodies are gone.”

“The dogs?”

“Yeah.”

“Why’d they take the bodies?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. It makes no sense.”

Greg chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“You, trying to make sense of all this. I stopped doing that yesterday.”

She managed a smile. “I can’t help it. It’s what I used to do for a living. Make sense of things.”

Greg went quiet as she worked. Finally, he glanced over at Savannah, still pacing across the room. “She saved my life.”

“Did she?”

“She opened the door at the right time. Otherwise I’d be banging on it, and those dogs would probably have caught up to me. They weren’t going to stay back forever. Sooner or later, the ones that left the house would have come back. Then instead of just two, who knows how many there would have been.”

Emily looked over at the teenager. If Savannah was eavesdropping on their conversation, she didn’t show it.

“They’re different,” Greg said.

She looked back at him. “Who?”

“The dogs.”

“Different how?”

“They’re infected, like the psychos, but they’re cooperating. You saw that, right?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“It’s weird.”

“It’s something, all right.”

“Anyways. Feels like I’m always needing help.”

“We all need help, especially now.”

“You don’t.”

“Me too.”

“When?”

“When I begged you to stay with me, remember?”

He smiled. “Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Beg me to stay? Or did you do something else?”

Emily smiled to herself and thought, Maybe he’s not so dumb after all.

She said, “Let’s not worry about any of that right now.” She let the roll of bloodied gauze drop to the floor. “Where’s the first aid kit?”

“I’m not sure…”

“Savannah,” Emily said.

The girl stopped pacing to turn in their direction.

“Where’s the first aid kit?” Emily asked.

“Here,” Savannah said. The teenager picked it up from one of the shelves and walked over with the box. “Is he going to be okay?”

Surprisingly, yes, Emily thought, but of course she didn’t say that.

She said instead, “He’ll be fine as long as I disinfect his wounds.” She put the box down next to her and opened it.

“Should I have disinfected it first?” Greg asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Then, almost embarrassingly, “I wasn’t sure how.”

She picked up the bottle of alcohol from the first aid kit. “This is going to hurt.”

Greg sighed. “A lot?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess it’s unavoidable?”

“Only if you want to stay alive.”

“Oh. In that case…”

“You gonna live?” Savannah asked Greg as she walked closer, peering down at his bloody arm—but not too close.

“Ask her,” Greg said, nodding at Emily.

“Probably,” Emily said.

Greg’s eyes widened. “‘Probably?’”

Emily smiled. “I’m just kidding. You’ll live.”

“Thank God,” Savannah said. “Because you looked…”

“Like shit?” Greg finished for her.

“I was gonna say you looked pretty bad before.”

“Like shit. You can say it.”

Savannah smiled. “Like shit, yeah.”

Greg chuckled, and so did Emily. She didn’t know why, but the fact they were having a good laugh—or, well, a good chuckle—over Greg’s situation—over all three of their situations—made it somehow comical to her. Then again, if she didn’t allow herself to enjoy the moment even a little bit, she might go insane.

As she worked on Greg, Emily glanced back toward the door, wondering what was happening out there.

Was Don alive?

Were the dogs?

Who was out there right now? Don, the dogs, or some other psycho? How many were in her house, stalking prey?

She remembered talking to Cole the first night they moved here. They were sleeping on futons at the time because the mattresses they’d ordered had suffered a delay in shipping.

“Are you happy?” he’d asked her.

“I’m always happy,” she’d answered honestly.

“Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re here,” she’d said.

He’d smiled, before saying, “We should have a baby.”

Emily had laughed, thinking he was making a joke.

But he hadn’t been.

A month later, she was pregnant, and they were scheduling his office on the second floor to be turned into a nursery.

And now, Cole was out there, somewhere.

Alive.

Not psycho, like Don.

She didn’t know how she knew, she just knew.

Chapter 25

Greg was reluctant, but she’d convinced him to take a well-deserved daytime nap. She’d given him a combination of painkillers and sedatives to help with that. The meds hadn’t come with the first aid kit when she’d purchased it, of course, but she’d added them later.

Just in case, right, Cole?

Afterward, Emily took a minute to herself in the bathroom and really got a good look at her face. The bridge of her nose wasn’t broken, but it was bruised and wouldn’t look the same for a few days. After she cleaned out all the specks of dry blood along her upper lip and dabbed at the bruises along her cheeks and neck, she looked almost presentable. Almost.

Bowman’s ambush had done a number on her appearance, but all things considered it could have been a lot worse. For one, she could have been dead, but she wasn’t. And neither was the baby inside her. Bowman had a lot to do with that. Even now, she wondered if telling him that she was pregnant had been the catalyst for him throwing her the knife. He hadn’t had to do that, but he did anyway.

Thank you, Bowman. My baby thanks you, too.

Emily put her hand over her stomach and thought about Cole again. He was out there, somewhere, probably making his way home to her right now. Cole would not let anything stop him. When he was determined, he saw it to the end. That was what had made him such a formidable operative in the field. When he’d decided to sell RistWorks, he hadn’t thought twice about it.

“I’m going to sell the company,” he’d said to her a week after she’d told him she was pregnant.

“You love that company,” she’d said.

“It’s a thing. You can’t love a thing, Em. I love you.” Then, placing a hand over her stomach—not that there was anything to even show she was pregnant at the time—he’d added, “And I love us.”

That was the end of that subject. She’d known better than to try to talk him out of it. Once Cole made up his mind to do something, he went through with it. The man she’d married was different in many ways from the one she’d first met. He was tamer, for one thing, and there wasn’t any of the danger in his eyes she’d recognized right away on their first meeting. Over time, he’d mellowed even further. He’d done it for her. For them.

Even so, Emily knew that the old him was still in there, lying dormant. She’d hoped it would never surface again, but after the last three days, she wasn’t so sure now. Cole had often told her about an inner voice that tormented him, while at the same time keeping him alive in times of great stress. It was the devil on his shoulder, cajoling him to do things that weren’t necessarily…nice. But, at the same time, were necessary.

“You’re the angel on the other shoulder,” he’d said. “The one that keeps me in check. That keeps the Voice quiet.”

“‘The Voice?’” she’d asked.

“That’s what I call it. I don’t have a name for it. Just the Voice.”

“Sounds…creepy.”

He’d laughed. “You don’t know the half of it, baby.”

Now, as she cleaned herself up, Emily thought, Listen to the Voice, Cole. If it keeps you alive, if it brings you back to me, listen to the Voice.

* * *

She left the bathroom and went straight to the duffel bags on the table. She hadn’t bothered to take a closer look at the SIG716, and instead picked up one of the Remington pump-action shotguns and grabbed a pouch for extra shells. If she was going to have to deal with dogs, a weapon with spreading power, that could take out multiple targets at close proximity, was the much better choice.

Emily rearmed herself with another one of the Glocks from the duffel bags and slipped two spare mags into the pouches around her waist. At least Bowman hadn’t stripped her of that, even if he had everything else. The combination of extra magazines and shells in the pouch put a noticeable extra weight on her, so she wasn’t going to be running marathons anytime soon. But she wouldn’t need to anyway as long as she had the shotgun and pistol on hand.

She added a knife to her arsenal. It looked like something used for hunting and not law-enforcement like the other weapons. Just over 11 inches in overall length, 6.5 inches of that making up a single-sided blade with a serrated back, and just under 5 inches of smooth wooden handle. Sharp enough to slice a fly out of the air, so Emily handled it cautiously, slipping the black nylon sheath along her belt, on her left hip. You never knew when you’d run out of bullets and need a backup.

Savannah was sitting against the wall next to the door, her arms folded across her bent knees, and staring forward. Emily wasn’t sure what the kid was looking at, but she’d seen that expression before.

The teenager was shell-shocked.

Whether it was because of how the world had fallen apart or watching Pete get his head bashed into the wall by a crazed Chrisman (or whatever his real name had been), or the events of the last few days, Emily didn’t know. But the kid barely moved when Emily sat down next to her and leaned the shotgun against the wall to her left.

Emily reached over and put a comforting hand on the teenager’s drooping shoulder. “You okay?”

Savannah shook her head. “No.”

Of course not. What a stupid question.

Emily said, “What made you go out there looking for me in the first place?”

“Greg.”

“He told you to?”

“No. He wanted to. But I saw the condition he was in…”

“So you did it first, before he could.”

“Yes.”

“That was brave of you.”

“Nah. It was stupid.” She lifted her right arm and stared at the bruised wrist, wrapped in bandages. Emily had done that after taking care of a now-snoring Greg. “I almost shot you.”

“We already went through this. You didn’t.”

“But I almost did.”

“But you didn’t.”

Savannah sighed and didn’t say anything else.

“You helped Greg back into the room?” Emily asked.

The teenager nodded. “I heard the shooting, then Greg screaming. I don’t know why, but I opened the door, and there he was, running right at me. The look on his face…”

“You saved his life.”

“Maybe.”

“You did, Savannah.”

“I guess.” She went quiet and stared off at nothing again.

“I’m sorry about Pete,” Emily said. “I don’t know if I said that already.”

“Thanks,” Savannah said, leaning forward, into her knees. “We were going to get married. After college.” She shrugged. “That was the plan, anyway. But you know that famous saying about plans?”

“What’s that?”

“Life is what happens when you’re busy making plans. I don’t know who said it, but it’s pretty famous.”

Emily smiled. She’d heard it before. Many times, in fact, but it surprised her that Savannah had, too.

“Truth is, we would probably have broken up long before then,” the teenager continued. “I mean, that’s what happens, right? You’re busy making all these plans for the future, and then life gets in the way. You go different places, meet other people…” Savannah sighed. “It was a stupid dream.”

“Dreams are never stupid. We wouldn’t have anything to live for if we didn’t have them. Never, ever give up on your dreams, Savannah.”

The girl nodded, not that Emily actually believed she was convinced.

They didn’t say anything else for a moment.

Then, finally, after too much awkward silence, Emily said, “Pete was a good kid.”

“He was,” Savannah said, and closed her eyes.

Emily lapsed into silence, thinking about her own Pete. Except his name was Cole and he was out there, coming back to her.

She knew it.

She didn’t know how she knew, she just knew it.

After what seemed like forever, the girl said, “What are we going to do now?”

Emily didn’t answer her right away. She didn’t know how.

“Emily?” Savannah said.

“I don’t know,” Emily said. She was surprised she had answered the teenager so truthfully.

When she glanced over, Emily was shocked to see a mild smile on Savannah’s face.

“What?” Emily said.

“I thought you’d lie. You know, tell me everything was going to be okay.”

“You’re old enough to know better. And you’ve been through too much for me to do that to you.”

“I guess.” Then, with a pursed smile and looking across the darkened room at a snoring Greg, “He looked so bad at first. Still does now, but at the time… He was bleeding everywhere. You didn’t see it because I wiped most of it up with rags.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s your house. I didn’t want you to freak out.”

Emily smiled at the thought of having a freak-out over the sight of blood. She would have been concerned that her dream home had turned into a bloodbath—just as she’d been the last three days—but that was a far cry from freaking out.

“I thought I might have to give him some of my blood,” Savannah was saying.

“You’d have to be the same blood type as him,” Emily said.

“We are.”

“Hmm?”

“We’re the same blood type. Both O-negative.”

Emily looked over at the girl. “How do you know that?”

“He told me.”

“That he’s O-negative?”

Savannah nodded. “Yeah. Why?”

“How do you know you’re O-negative? Don’t get me wrong, Savannah, but most adults don’t know their blood type.”

“I used to be sick a lot as a kid. Went in and out of hospitals for a while.” Emily must have been staring at the teenager strangely, because the girl added, “What? Did I say something wrong?”

“I’m O-negative, too,” Emily said.

“You are?”

Emily nodded, then got up and hurried across the room.

“Emily?” Savannah said from behind her.

“I need to ask Greg about something.”

She heard Savannah getting up and running after her. “About what?”

Emily didn’t answer her. Instead, she shook Greg awake.

The contractor didn’t open his eyes.

“He’s really out of it,” Savannah said, standing next to her.

“I gave him some strong sedatives and painkillers,” Emily said.

She shook Greg harder. He groaned and tried to turn over, but bumped against the sofa’s back. Thankfully he hadn’t attempted the maneuver in the wrong direction or he would have crushed his heavily bandaged arm.

“What are you going to ask him?” Savannah asked.

“About Barnes.”

“Who’s Barnes?”

“The dead guy upstairs.”

She shook Greg even harder until the contractor finally opened his eyes and stared up at her. Then he looked over at Savannah.

“Greg,” Emily said when the big man started to get up.

His eyes were wide open, and he snapped from Emily to Savannah and back again. “What? What happened? Something wrong?”

“No,” Emily said, sitting down across from him.

“What happened? Is it over?”

Emily pursed a smile. I wish.

She said, “You told Savannah your blood type is O-negative?”

Greg squinted back at her, as if he couldn’t quite understand what she was trying to say. Emily could see the gears turning, trying to shake off the cobwebs of sleep and medication behind his eyes.

“Yes?” he finally said. Then, looking over at Savannah, “I was joking. Trying to make light of this,” he said, holding up his bandaged arm.

“You said, ‘I hope we’re the same blood type, because I may need some blood,’” Savannah said.

Greg flashed an embarrassed smile. “Something like that.” Then, turning back to Emily, “What about it?”

“What about Barnes?” Emily asked.

“Barnes?”

“Do you happen to know his blood type?”

Greg thought about it for a moment.

“It’s okay if you don’t—” Emily started to say.

“AB, I think,” Greg finally said.

“Are you sure?”

“Mostly.”

“‘Mostly?’”

He shrugged. “We gave blood to the Red Cross a few months back for a charity drive. I remember us comparing blood types for some reason. You know, just guy chatter. Nothing to do when you’re just sitting there getting blood pumped out of you.”

“So, AB?”

“I think so.”

“But not O-negative like you? That, you’re sure of.”

“Yes.” Then, squinting at her the way Savannah had earlier, “Why? What’s that got to do with anything?”

The contractor glanced over at Savannah as if to ask her the same question.

The teen shrugged back at him. “Don’t ask me.”

“What’s going on?” he asked Emily. “I was having a really nice dream until you woke me up.”

Emily leaned back against the sofa. “I’m O-negative, too.”

“You are?”

“You are?” Savannah repeated. “That’s wild.”

“It’s wild, all right,” Greg said. “So all three of us are O-negative?” Then, perhaps picking up on what Emily was trying to get at, “You think that has something to do with why we weren’t infected?”

“Maybe,” Emily said.

“Barnes was AB, but he was infected. What about your neighbors?”

Emily shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t exactly take inventory of everyone’s blood type when I moved in.” She looked over at Savannah. “What about Pete?”

“Pete?” Savannah said.

“What was his blood type?”

The teenager shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Emily nodded. It had been a long shot anyway that the teens would know each other’s blood type. As she had told the girl earlier, most adults didn’t know theirs. Why would teenagers? Savannah had known hers because she was a daily guest at the local hospital and would have either read or heard it mentioned at least once. She might have even memorized it, believing that it was something important. Which, of course, it was.

“It’s a hell of a coincidence if it doesn’t have anything to do with what’s going on out there,” Greg was saying.

Emily nodded. “Yeah, it would be. And I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Then, she smiled.

“What?” Greg said.

“What?” Savannah repeated.

Emily continued smiling at the two of them.

“What?” Greg said again.

“My husband, Cole,” Emily said. “He’s O-negative, too.”

Chapter 26

“Cole’s out there, and he wasn’t affected. That means he’s on his way back here to me right now.”

Greg and Savannah exchanged a look. They weren’t very subtle about it, either. Not that Emily cared.

The big contractor finally turned back at her. “You sound pretty sure about that.”

“I am,” Emily said.

“It’s been three days…”

“We’re a long way from downtown. If it’s like this everywhere in the city—especially in downtown—then Cole has it a hundred times worse than us. He would have to fight his way here. And I’m not just talking about the traffic.”

“The psychos,” Savannah said.

“Yes.”

“If he wasn’t affected,” Greg said.

“He wasn’t,” Emily said. She stood up. “I don’t believe in coincidences. The three of us are all O-negative and weren’t affected. But Barnes, who wasn’t, was. That’s not a coincidence. That’s a pattern. I believe in patterns.”

“Emily…”

She pursed a smile at him. “Greg, I’m not asking for your permission. I’m not even asking you to believe me.”

“Ouch.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m just being perfectly honest with you. I don’t care what your opinions are on this matter.” She looked over at Savannah. “Or yours.”

The teenager grinned. “So, just like my parents, then?”

“Sorry.”

“Nah. It’s cool.” She shrugged. “I kinda like that you’re going to do what you’re going to do. It’s pretty badass.”

Emily smiled at the girl. She wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not. “I’m just doing what I have to. I don’t know about badass.”

“I know. That’s what makes it so badass.”

“So we’re not going to talk about it?” Greg asked. Unlike Savannah, apparently he didn’t think what she had told them she was going to do was very badass.

Emily shook her head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There’s a lot to talk about.”

“No, there isn’t.”

“Emily…”

“There isn’t, Greg.” She sighed and softened her expression a bit. A little bit. “This is not a democracy, and I’m not asking for permission.”

“But it sounds like a really, really bad idea.”

“Maybe you’re right, but I’m doing it anyway.”

She walked over to the table with the guns and ammo and sifted through them. She swept the pouches with the gems to the floor and dug into the duffel bags, searching for something she’d spotted earlier but had forgotten which bag they were in.

“What are you looking for?” Savannah asked.

“A radio,” Emily said. “I saw it in one of the bags earlier.”

She found it. It was a two-way portable, the kind law enforcement used. It made perfect sense since Bowman and his fellow jailbirds had stolen everything they had from the cops at the nearby station.

Emily turned the radio on but only got static. She wasn’t too surprised by that result, though. If the phones didn’t work and the power was down everywhere, the last thing most people would do was look for a radio to start communicating.

Most normal people, anyway.

Her husband was anything but normal.

“You’re really doing this?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Emily said.

“Can we just think about it for a second?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Please?”

She sighed and stared at him. “He’s out there, and I need to make contact with him. Cole would be looking for a way to make contact with me, too. The phones are down. TV is down. I need to find out if everything is down.”

“It’s a big risk.”

“It’s one I’m willing to take.”

She could see it in his eyes: He didn’t just disagree but was going to fight tooth and nail to make her agree with him. That, after all, was why she’d manipulated to keep him in the house with her when all of this first started: Greg’s willingness to be her knight in shining armor. He was just doing the job she’d given him right now.

“Greg,” she said, “let’s get this straight. I don’t care what you think. I’m not sure if I made that obvious yet.”

He sighed, looking almost offended. Oh, who was she kidding? There was nothing almost about his face at the moment.

“Yeah, you did,” he said.

She should have felt a little guilty, but she didn’t. “I’m going to do what I need to do, and you and Savannah will stay in here.”

“You’re going out there on your own?” Savannah asked. She sounded alarmed. Or scared. Both.

“It’s better that way,” Emily said, though what she really wanted to say was: The two of you would just get in the way.

Especially Greg, who could barely move one arm—his dominant arm, at that. And while Savannah had surprised Emily when the teen went outside earlier to look for her, Emily also remembered that the kid had nearly killed her with the Glock.

No, this was something she had to do on her own.

Greg stood up, wincing as he did. “If I can’t stop you, then I’ll just have to go with you.”

“No,” Emily said.

“You can’t stop me.”

“You sure about that?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

Or started to say, but before he could get the -ly part out, Emily had snatched up one of the spare magazines on the table and tossed it at him.

Greg lifted his right hand to catch the mag on instinct and let out a heavy, pained grunt. The spare ammo hit him in the chest and fell to the floor.

“Shit,” Greg said.

“Exactly,” Emily said. “Out there, in your current condition, you’re a liability to me.”

The big man sighed and sat back down.

“I’m sorry, Greg,” Emily said.

He forced a smile, but it wasn’t even close to being convincing. “I thought I was the one protecting you in here.”

“You did. But not anymore.”

“I guess not.” He looked toward the door, then back at her. “So that’s it?”

She nodded.

“Okay,” he said. Then, pursing a more convincing smile, “Watch out for dogs.”

“What about me?” Savannah asked.

Emily turned to her. “What about you?”

“I won’t be a liability.” Quickly, to Greg, “Sorry.”

Greg chuckled. “It’s okay, kid. You’re right. You’re both right.”

Emily said to the girl, “You almost shot me upstairs, remember?”

Savannah’s face paled. “Oh.”

“Besides, both Greg and I need you in here.”

“Why?”

“Greg needs you to watch over him, and I need someone to open that door for me should I have to hightail it back here in a hurry.”

The teenager nodded. “I can do that.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Greg grunted. “Great. So everyone’s got a job except me.”

“You have a job,” Emily said.

“I do? What’s that?”

“Not dying.”

“Oh, that,” the big contractor said.

* * *

“You sure you wanna be doing this?” Savannah asked.

The teen was whispering, even though she didn’t really have to. They had been standing next to the door for the last thirty minutes or so, listening for any sounds on the other side, and hearing nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Emily nodded back at her. “Ready?”

“No,” Savannah said, “but since when have I ever gotten what I wanted?”

“You got this.”

“I do?”

“I have faith in you.”

“Why?”

Emily couldn’t help herself and grinned at the kid. “Open the door.”

“Sure?” the teenager asked. Then, “Sure, sure?”

“Open the door, Savannah.”

The teenager sighed, then did just that. She unlocked the door and pulled it open…

…and Emily stepped outside with the shotgun and enough ammunition on her to kill the entire neighborhood.

And maybe, just maybe, she might have to do exactly that.

Chapter 27

Buzzing sounds.

Flies.

A lot of them.

She tuned the sounds out. Or as much of it as she could, anyway, in order to focus on the task at hand.

“It’s a hell of a coincidence if it doesn’t have anything to do with what’s going on out there,” Greg had said.

“Yeah, it would be. And I don’t believe in coincidences,” she had said.

And she didn’t. Most of the time. Her job used to be to gather intelligence and make a smart, rational decision based on the evidence at hand. There was no room for emotions, for personal conflicts. It was how she’d done it for years, long before she ever met Cole.

But then she did meet Cole, and that was when things went wrong.

Or maybe the better descriptor was right.

Of course, her superiors would probably disagree, but then they hadn’t fallen in love with a charming devil-may-care rogue that did whatever the hell he wanted and did it well. Not everyone knew the things about Cole that she did—that underneath the tough exterior he was a caring human being that always, always tried to do the right thing. He might not always succeed—that devil on his shoulder had a lot to do with that—but he always did his best.

That was Cole. That was the man she loved. And when it came to him, she didn’t always think straight. She couldn’t always be emotionless.

And she didn’t give a damn, either.

“It’s a hell of a coincidence if it doesn’t have anything to do with what’s going on out there,” Greg had said.

“Yeah, it would be. And I don’t believe in coincidences,” she had said.

Maybe it was, and maybe it wasn’t. She could spend a day—longer—trying to convince herself that she was acting on the intel at hand and not from optimism driven almost purely by emotion, but she’d be lying to herself. It’d been three days—okay, technically just two days and an extra morning—and she hadn’t heard a peep from Cole.

Greg hadn’t wanted to say it, but she could see it in his face: “What if your husband is already dead, Emily?”

What if he wasn’t?

What if he was just hurt, somewhere out there?

What if he was trying to make his way home to her now?

What if he was doing all he could to make contact?

What if…

What if.

Fuck what if, she thought as she moved through the back hallway, the shotgun in front of her but not raised. She wouldn’t need to aim to hit anything that popped out in front of her in the narrow passageway. One pull, and they’d be dead. Man or animal.

There was nothing new on the floor between the backroom and the stairs that hadn’t been there when she escaped through it earlier. The bodies remained where they were, the blood just as spread out, though a bit darker now. The smell was thicker, though, but that was expected when you put dead bodies inside close confines. In a day—maybe less than that—the house would stink of death. The sound of flies buzzing was impossible to ignore, no matter how hard she tried.

So much for my dream house.

There was nothing that screamed out someone had traversed the area the last time she was out here with Savannah. She kept both ears open, but the only sounds she could pick up were her own intense breathing and heartbeat striking her chest. Too loud. Way, way too loud. She hadn’t felt this much adrenaline in a long time. Not even when she was fighting off those dogs earlier, or trying to keep Don from stabbing her in the face with that hoe of his.

But right now, she couldn’t help it. She was outside the safety of the backroom, beyond its heavy metal door, and alone.

And why was that?

Because she didn’t believe in coincidences.

Because she wanted desperately to believe Cole was out there, maybe waiting for her to contact him.

Because she was acting on emotions instead of raw intel.

Step one: Know your objective.

Stay alive. Which she’d managed to do for two days and change despite some very adverse situations.

Step two: Gather intel.

She was doing that, even if all the intel was a little…sketchy, and most of it was assumptions instead of cold, hard facts.

Step three: Formulate a plan.

Make contact with Cole. That one was pretty easy.

And finally, step four: Execute that plan.

Go to the rooftop with the police radio and try to see if she could make step three happen.

It wasn’t exactly the best of plans, she had to admit, but she couldn’t think of anything else. The only other option was to hide in the backroom, waiting for Cole to show up. No. Emily knew herself, and that would drive her batty.

The old Emily, that had spent years in Army Intelligence and then later, in the private sector plying the same exact trade, would have turned around and returned to the backroom. Hell, the old Emily wouldn’t have been caught out here in the first place. She’d be able to separate her emotions from the job. Nothing good came from following your emotions.

That was, after all, how she ended up in a house in the suburbs with Cole, and carrying his child.

She sighed and paused for a bit. She took her hand off the forend of the shotgun and touched her stomach. Still nothing more than a slight bump. But the lack of overt physical evidence of her pregnancy didn’t mean very much, because she knew what was inside and how much she dearly loved the man who had put it there.

Dammit, Cole, she thought as she pressed on.

She didn’t have any trouble seeing the front door from where she stood in the back hallway. There was a big, gaping hole there, allowing a generous flood of afternoon sunlight to brighten up the gory shitshow that her dream home had become. There were more shafts of light coming from other directions, reminding her that the windows were also wide-open at the moment. There was absolutely nothing to keep anyone—or anything—out right now.

The stench of blood was stronger once she was beyond the safety of the back hallway. There was a lot of it. Human and animal, even if she could only see the humans that had bled them. The animals…

Why did the dogs take their dead? That’s not normal.

Then again, what about these few days was normal?

Emily didn’t lollygag. She exposed herself just long enough as she stepped out of the backroom hallway to swing the shotgun left, then right, then left again to sweep the visible parts of the living room. She could only see a small section of the kitchen from here, but it was enough to tell her there was nothing—and no one—waiting for her to do something stupid.

Like right now? she thought.

No. Not right now.

She smirked to herself. Maybe if she told herself that enough times, she might actually believe it.

Maybe.

She went up the stairs before she could change her mind, stepping around as much of the blood as she could. It was an impossible task, and after a while, she stopped trying. The soles of her shoes squished against the plentiful wetness.

The second floor was as empty as the first. And just like below, the stink of death was in the air, tickling at her nostrils.

Emily switched to breathing through her mouth.

She climbed the last step and turned right to see up against the hallway. The open doors to her left, the wall to her right, and the master bedroom on the other end. There were no signs of Don or the dogs. There was no additional blood on the carpeted floor that she hadn’t seen when she was moving through earlier before encountering Savannah at the stairs.

Nothing.

There was nothing.

That should have made her feel better, but it didn’t. Instead, it just made her even more paranoid, if that was even possible.

She moved up the hallway, glancing up for a second or two to pick up the attic door. There, closed like the last time she’d run past it. The rope dangled from one end to make pulling the heavy wooden slab easier.

Emily refocused on the first door in front of her. Cole’s former office turned would-be nursery. She stopped and peeked inside, shotgun ready to blast anything that moved.

Empty, unless she was counting Barnes’s dead body, still where she’d left him.

But no signs of dogs or Don, or any other psycho.

She proceeded forward.

The attic was closer now, the rope dangling oh-so temptingly in front of her. She stopped underneath it and looked toward the door at the end. Into her bedroom. Where she’d last seen Don.

The buzzing of flies could be heard, even if she couldn’t see them yet.

Did she want to make sure Don was dead?

No.

Yes.

Maybe.

She wasn’t sure when she made the decision, but she was soon moving past the attic and to her bedroom.

She had to make sure. She just had to make sure.

Emily didn’t walk right through the doorless master bedroom. She eased her way into it, the shotgun leading the way. The room was as messy as she’d last seen it, but there wasn’t anything new to make it messier. Her bed—her poor king-size bed with the silk duvets all the way from Europe and the sham pillowcases all the way from Asia—was shredded and bloodied. She’d chosen everything, including the bed, herself.

Emily sighed as she focused on the bathroom at the end. The door hung from the same single hinge, and there were no signs of either Don or the dogs.

But she could smell them.

There was, again, blood in the air.

A lot of it.

Emily moved cautiously forward, her forefinger on the trigger. That was, again, bad trigger finger discipline, but she didn’t give a damn. She didn’t want to think about it. If anything appeared in front of her, she was going to pull.

There was a lot of blood on the floor leading to the bathroom and even more once she could see inside. The tiles were slick with the red stuff and fur and…even more blood.

Jesus, there was a lot of blood.

Emily stepped inside, lifting the shotgun, ready to shoot.

She didn’t have to. The dogs were dead. The two that had attacked Don lay crumpled around the big one that had first assaulted him, almost as if they’d crawled there with their last dying breath so they could be together. She couldn’t tell where they’d been stabbed or how many times. Dark black blood matted their fur to their thin frames, making it difficult to tell that their eyes, like their infected human counterparts, were bloodshot. Flies flitted across them like dust clouds.

Emily glanced past the animals at the figure sitting on the floor, his back against the counter.

Don.

He was still alive.

Her neighbor looked up and over at her, his chest heaving. She could almost see the adrenaline pumping through his veins, trying to get him to stand up. But he couldn’t, probably because he’d lost too much blood. Even breathing seemed to take a lot out of him.

Don’s face was a mask of blood, as were his shredded golf shirt and ripped slacks. The dogs had gotten in their licks, all right. There wasn’t an inch of Don’s body, from head to toe, that wasn’t bleeding. Thick, syrupy red liquid dripped from him and joined the obscenely large pool underneath his sitting form.

Don was reaching for the gardening hoe lying next to him. Or he attempted to. His fingers twitched in its direction, but he couldn’t muster up enough energy to actually get to it. He had, she saw, lost three of his fingers, leaving only the thumb and pinky. Blood spurted from the stumps as he tried to move the appendages.

“You don’t look so good, Don,” she said.

Emily didn’t know why she’d said it. It wasn’t as if Don could even hear her. Or understand her.

Could he?

She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything. As much as she wanted to gather intel, survival had taken precedence. When this was over, when she had a minute to breathe, she’d do what she was trained to. But right now…

“I guess taking you to the hospital is out of the question.”

His eyes, still bloodshot, drilled into hers. She couldn’t tell if he was in pain, but she could see the bloodlust in his eyes. Even now, torn to ribbons and more dead than alive, his need to end her burned on his face.

Emily lowered the shotgun until it hung by the sling, then drew the hunting knife from its sheath. Don didn’t react. He just continued bleeding.

From his eyes, from his lips, cheeks, his chin…

The man was swimming in blood. The neighbor she first introduced herself to, and who Cole called a “CPA, only less athletic,” was unrecognizable. In his stead, there was just this…thing. This wretched figure that was once Don Taylor but was, now…something else.

She wanted to ask him what had happened, how he had turned, or what was running through his mind as he stabbed Mrs. Landry to death when all of this first started. She wanted to know the why of it.

But looking at Don, staring into those cold, bloodshot eyes of his, she didn’t think even he knew.

Don was gone.

He was long, long gone.

Emily walked toward her neighbor and tightened her grip on the knife’s wooden handle. Her hand was slick with sweat, but she passed that off to the heat of the bathroom instead of hesitation at what she was about to do.

“Sorry about this, Don,” she said, even though she didn’t think she meant it.

In her mind, she was just putting the man out of his misery. The fact that she’d be putting him out of her misery, too, was just a coincidence.

Chapter 28

She wasn’t feeling very good about what she’d done. Not that she’d had a choice, but there was a big difference between doing what she had to and being happy about it. Right now, she’d settle for feeling nonplussed, but even that eluded her.

Emily walked quietly out of the bathroom and across the bedroom. She didn’t even notice the mess the dogs and Don had left behind. She couldn’t bring herself to care anymore. Once upon a time, this place had mattered. Now, it was just a building with some rooms and walls and a rooftop and floor.

It wasn’t hers anymore. She didn’t want it to be hers.

She thought about Cole instead and how he was on his way to her right now. Or that was what she’d told Greg and Savannah, and what she wanted desperately to believe, but the truth was, she was just hoping.

Because that was all she had.

Hope.

Hoping that Cole had escaped the madness that had consumed her neighbors.

Hoping that she was right about their blood type being, if not the primary reason they’d remained unaffected, then at least a big part of it.

Hoping that Cole had gotten through the last three days just as she had.

Hoping…

Emily stopped moving.

She could hear it. Breathing. It was coming from the hallway, on the other side of the wide-open master bedroom door. She couldn’t see who or what was causing it, but she could hear it.

She could hear it.

Slowly, quietly, she slipped the hunting knife back into its sheath, then reached for the slung shotgun and slid it forward, then up.

The door was less than ten feet, but it might as well have been ten miles. She’d been moving slowly, walking in a haze after dealing with Don once and for all. She should have been alerted to the presence of someone else—maybe something else—beyond the bedroom much earlier.

Emily did nothing for the next five or so seconds, and just listened.

Footsteps, accompanying the slow but haggard breathing. Someone was having trouble getting each breath out.

Emily took a quick sidestep to hide herself from the wide-open door so whoever was on the other side couldn’t see her before she spotted them. She stopped only when she bumped into the foot of the bed and lifted the shotgun and took aim.

The Remington came with iron sights, not that optics would have made much of a difference given the distance. The 12-gauge was just a shade under 8 pounds and had a capacity of 4 shells. She carried another dozen in the pouch behind her back. If she ever ran out of ammo, she had the Glock on her right hip, along with the two magazines for that.

Yeah, she’d come prepared. She just hoped it was enough.

An interminable five seconds followed.

Then ten…

…fifteen…

A figure burst through the opening in front of her.

No, not a figure, but two figures!

Two men locked in combat, flailing as they fell through the doorless frame and slammed into the floor in front of her. Blood flitted from their eyes as they struggled, both armed with some kind of bladed weapon.

Emily took a sudden step back, the pump-action ready to fire, except she didn’t know who to shoot.

They were fighting each other. (Did they even know she was present?) They were stabbing each other. The one on the bottom was driving a knife into the other man’s side, grunting every time his weapon found flesh, while the other man’s own bladed weapon stabbed into his chest.

Over and over, and over, and over.

Emily stood silently, not sure what to do. Not sure how to respond. She’d never seen anything like it. She’d thought she was ready for everything, but she was wrong. She wasn’t ready for this.

Two maniacs with bloodshot eyes killing each other.

Before her eyes.

And not giving a damn that she was even there.

At least, they didn’t, until the one on the bottom succumbed and lay still, his knife falling to the carpeted floor next to him. Blood seeped freely from his yellow T-shirt with a smiley face on it. He was wearing joggers and running shoes, but she didn’t recognize him. Early thirties, blond hair—

The other psycho looked up, blood dripping from his left side where the jogger had been stabbing him. There was no pain on his face, no registering of his wound. He only had eyes for her.

Emily took a step back, the Remington wavering slightly in her hands. Something that might have been fear but could also have been shock raced through her body.

The killer was young, early twenties, with a cross earring dangling from his right ear. He might have had an identical piece of jewelry on his left ear too, but most of that ear was gone. The remaining part of the ear was caked with blood, as was the entire right side of his face. Cuts that looked as if they’d been put there by knives and gashes from claws or teeth—or both—crisscrossed his exposed chest. That also made it easy to pick up the heavy palpations underneath his chest as his heartbeat hammered like a runaway train.

But it was the man’s eyes that Emily focused on. They were bloodshot. Just seconds ago, the man had only seen the other psycho with those eyes, but now that he was dead, the killer only noticed her.

She was next.

He jumped up to his feet, the blade in his right hand—it looked like half of a large pair of scissors—rising at the same time.

The boom! of the shotgun rocked the bedroom walls—somehow way louder than Emily had been anticipating—and the psycho was flung back by the blast. She’d caught him in the naked chest with the full buckshot load.

The man crashed to the floor. Not that he stayed down. And she didn’t think he would, either.

Emily stepped forward, racking the Remington’s forend, as the man struggled to pick himself up. He hadn’t dropped his scissor-knife-whatever-the-hell-that-was. It was clenched tightly in his hand.

Boom! again, and the man’s face turned to mush.

Instinctively, Emily reached behind her, grabbed two shells, and began feeding them into the shotgun. She was putting the second shell in when she heard it.

She froze in place and listened.

No way.

Was she imagining it? Did she want to hear it—or something like it—so badly that her imagination was running wild?

No fucking way.

No, it wasn’t her imagination. This was real. What she was hearing was real.

It had been a while, but Emily recognized the sound for what it was, even inside her house with the walls in the way.

The whup-whup-whup was unmistakable.

A helicopter. She was hearing a helicopter!

She ran toward the window and shoved it upward. She stuck her head outside and glanced around, before looking up—

There.

A chopper, skirting over the front gate of Arrow Bay. It looked like a civilian helicopter, which surprised her. If there were going to be aircraft in the sky, she’d expected military ones.

She stared at it for a few seconds, watching its path—

It was coming toward her.

It was coming toward her.

Cole. Could it be Cole? Could it—

The heavy thump-thump-thump of footsteps from behind her like a runaway locomotive shattered her thoughts.

Emily spun and lifted the Remington and pulled the trigger.

A large man wearing torn black slacks and a leather jacket rose off the floor and landed on his back. A heavily chipped baseball bat, hair matting much of it, rolled away along the floor nearby. If the man hadn’t been so heavy and made so much noise, he might have gotten closer to Emily before she heard him. She’d been so focused on the chopper—

The chopper!

She whirled back around and looked out as the aircraft got closer, the sound of its rotors even louder now that she had the window up.

Screams, from below. From the first floor of the house.

“Emily! Emily!”

Her eyes widened. That was Savannah.

Emily raced across the bedroom to the door, jumping over one, two, three dead psychos in her path. She could have gone around them, but that would have slowed her down. Even a second might be too much.

“Emily!”

Savannah again, the fear in her voice coming through loud and clear.

Emily burst through the open door and into the hallway.

The bang-bang! of a pistol firing from below.

“Emily!”

She ran faster, the shotgun clutched in front of her while the pouch with the extra shells thumped relentlessly against her back.

Bang-bang! from the first floor.

Savannah. Or Greg.

One of them or both of them.

Bang-bang!

She waited for the girl to shout her name again but didn’t hear it. She could, though, pick up the continued whup-whup-whup of the helicopter approaching from behind her, impossible to ignore now.

Emily reached the stairs and grabbed the round newel with one hand, slingshotting herself around and down the steps. She didn’t so much as run as she fell, somehow managing to keep on her feet all the way down.

The bang! of another gunshot, this one coming from the direction of the back hallway. But it was too loud to have come from inside the backroom. Which meant either Greg or Savannah, or both of them, had come outside for whatever reason.

A body lay on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. Not the woman in the white dress, but another one. This was also a woman, lying over the one in the white dress. Bloody red eyes stared awkwardly in Emily’s direction as she flung herself down the stairs. A meat cleaver, the blade covered in blood, rested next to the woman’s outstretched arm. There were two holes in her chest, fresh blood pumping out and spreading across her one-piece cotton nightgown.

Another one of her neighbors, whose name Emily didn’t know.

A figure appeared over the dead housewife, stumbling backward.

Savannah!

The girl appeared out of the back hallway, fumbling with a Glock. She was attempting to reload it but having a lot of trouble. She wasn’t watching where she was going and tripped on the woman in white and went down.

“Savannah!” Emily shouted.

The girl looked up and over at her, her hands and clothes dripping in the blood of the two dead women she was sitting on. It was a sight that Emily would probably never forget, but she thought Savannah would probably remember it even more vividly, if the horrified look on her face was any indication.

Emily was almost down the stairs when Greg appeared. He also came out of the back hallway and was running toward Savannah, a Glock in his left hand. If Greg noticed her coming down, he didn’t turn to greet her. He couldn’t, she found out, because he was too busy pointing his gun toward the door and firing.

Bang-bang-bang!

Emily couldn’t see what he was shooting at, but whatever—or whoever—it was, Greg wasn’t stopping them, because he kept pulling the trigger. The Glock, Emily saw, was moving way too much in his hand with every shot.

Bang-bang-bang!

Some of that, she thought, was because he was using his weak hand to hold the Glock. It wasn’t like he had any choice, with his right still heavily bandaged and in the makeshift sling—

A teenager in drooping black pajamas and a Captain America T-shirt appeared out in the peripheral vision of Emily’s left side. He was running toward Greg, a bloody hammer cocked back behind him to strike. Blood gushed out of his chest as he ran, out of control.

And Greg, firing—

Bang-bang!

Finally, finally, the boy lost his footing and slammed into the floor on his back, the hammer skidding away from his outstretched fingers. He lay still, blood pumping out of multiple parts of his body.

Greg finally glanced over at her as she scrambled down to meet him. “Are you okay?” he asked.

Emily jumped the last step and helped Savannah up from the floor. The girl’s clothes were dripping with blood, and her mouth was open in a silent scream, even though nothing came out.

“You okay?” Emily asked her.

“Yes,” Savannah said.

“Good.” Then, her face hardening, “Didn’t I tell you two to stay inside?”

The teenager’s face turned slightly red. “I heard shooting and thought you might be in trouble.”

Greg sighed. “And I heard her shouting your name and shooting.”

Emily shook her head. “Goddammit. You two need to learn to follow orders—”

“You hear that?” Greg said, cutting her off.

Emily didn’t bother to ask Hear what? because she knew what he was referring to. She looked toward the front door instead.

The wide-open front door.

“That’s a helicopter, right?” Greg asked. He sounded hopeful, maybe even excited.

She nodded. “Yes. I saw it when I was upstairs.”

“Military?”

“No. Civilian.”

Figures flashed by on the sidewalk and the streets. Psychos. They weren’t running into her house—at least not yet—but they seemed to have come alive, like bees that were suddenly on the warpath now that something had disturbed their nest.

Something like a helicopter. It was bringing all the psychos out.

…and if that same chopper was indeed headed toward her house, then it would bring them right to her doorstep, too…

Chapter 29

“Emily? What do we do?” That was Greg.

“We should run outside, right?” Savannah, this time. “I mean, it’s a helicopter! It could be the rescue we’ve been waiting for!”

“It’s too dangerous to just run outside.”

“But we can’t just stay in here.”

“It’s too dangerous out there, Savannah. Right, Emily?”

“If we just stay in here, they might not see us! What if they keep flying by?”

“Emily? Emily, what should we do?”

Emily didn’t hear him or the question. She was too busy thinking.

Step one: Know your objective.

The answer to this one was the same it’d been since all of this madness began: Stay alive.

Step two: Gather intel.

They were outside the backroom, and a chopper was fast approaching. If she was right—and she thought she was—the aircraft was headed right for her house. It was moving in the right trajectory. Soon, it would go over her roof. That is, unless it was coming specifically to her house. If that were the case, it would mean Cole was onboard. Why else would it choose her home, of all homes, if it wasn’t Cole? There would be no reason. Only Cole would do that.

And then there was the matter of the psychos. Both she, Greg, and Savannah had fired enough rounds and made enough noise that pretty much every infected dog and human being still hanging around Arrow Bay would have heard. And even if they didn’t, that approaching chopper would lead them right to her doors.

Step three: Formulate a plan.

Get to safety. She could achieve that one easily, by retreating into the backroom again.

…But if she did that, the helicopter, there would be no choice to flag down the chopper. Would they even stop? Would they just keep going?

Unless Cole was inside.

It had to be Cole.

It just had to be.

…But what if she was wrong? What if—

“Emily?” Greg. Or Savannah. She’d lost track of who was talking to her. “What should we do? Stay in here or go out?”

And finally, step four: Execute that plan.

There was the obvious plan, and the stupid one.

She chose the latter.

Emily turned back to face Greg and Savannah. “Stay here.”

Savannah’s eyes bulged. “What?”

“What?” Greg joined in.

“Watch my back.”

“Emily—” Greg started, but she’d already run to the front door. “Emily!”

“Watch my back!” she shouted but didn’t look back. “I’m counting on you, Greg! Don’t let me down!”

She imagined him sighing, maybe even cursing under his breath. But he didn’t run after her. Or, at least, she couldn’t hear footsteps behind her; but then again, she was so focused on the whup-whup-whup of the approaching chopper she had trouble hearing her own heartbeats.

She was almost at the door when she picked up sudden motion in the corner of her right eye.

A psycho burst through the opening that connected the living room with the dining room, something that looked like a heavily dented machete rising in the air. Blood flitted from his eyes as he ran in a line at her.

Boom! and the psycho jerked into the air and landed back on the carpet, blood spraying the floor around him. The man—fifties, balding, his face shredded by claws—struggled to get back up.

Bang-bang-bang! as Greg walked across the living room and finished him off. It took him three bullets but only one hit the man in the chest.

Greg looked over at her. “I’m shit with my left hand.”

I can see that, she thought but said, “Watch my back.”

“We will,” Savannah said, stepping up next to Greg.

Emily nodded at the both of them, before turning and running to the door. She had to jump over the dead psycho that’d been there since last night. If she thought the bodies smelled before, being even closer to it made her want to vomit.

Sunlight blinded her for a second or two as she ran out into the driveway. She blinked through the pain and peered forward, then up at the chopper.

It was a civilian aircraft, all right. A Bell, from the looks of it. White up front, and possibly blue in the back. There was a large, round object hanging off its front that reflected back the sunlight.

It was a camera because she was looking at a news chopper.

Screams pierced the air, and Emily looked back down and whispered, “Oh, shit.”

Her fears had been correct. She, Greg, and Savannah weren’t the only ones to hear or notice the helicopter. Every single thing and people in Arrow Bay had as well, and they were out in force.

They were fighting up and down the streets and on front yards and inside homes. She could see figures locked in combat behind windows and unmoving ones sprawled on the sidewalks, patches of bright red underneath them. It wasn’t just psychos trying to kill each other, but Labradors were attacking prey in packs. Figures raced up the streets, trying to escape the dogs. Some made it behind cover, others didn’t.

All Emily cared about was that they weren’t running to her.

“Emily!” someone shouted from behind her.

Her mind registered Savannah’s voice even as Emily turned in time to catch a woman in a silk pink camisole top appear from around her house and make a straight line for her. The woman—Emily didn’t recognize the face—was holding a knife in one hand, and blood caked almost the entire front of her body.

Before Emily could fire, there were two bangs!

Savannah, shooting at the running woman. Or trying to, anyway. Her first shot missed badly, but her second struck the woman in the thigh, and she twisted, slowing down just enough—

Boom! as Emily finished her off.

The very loud whup-whup-whup of the chopper blades as the aircraft flashed over her, whipping her hair around her face. Savannah retreated slightly back into the house to get away from the sudden whirlwind, but Emily glanced up as the helicopter’s white belly swooped past her, flying so low that the pilot was either suicidal or—

—he was planning to land soon.

Emily followed the chopper’s path as it went over her house and kept going—until it didn’t. It began making a U-turn.

It was coming back.

It was coming back to land in her backyard.

Cole, she thought.

Because who else could it be? Who else would fly to a suburban subdivision in a news chopper and land in the backyard of a house next to a lake?

Cole would.

Cole would do exactly that in order to reach her.

The chopper had disappeared behind her house when Emily ran back toward Savannah, hiding just behind the open front door. Greg was in the background, watching the dining room and kitchen.

“Cole!” she shouted.

The teenager peeked out at her. “What?”

“Cole!”

Greg turned around. “Your husband?”

“Yes!” Emily grabbed the teenager and pulled her through the living room and toward the kitchen. “Come on!”

Greg ran after them. “Where we going?”

“Anywhere but here!”

“Um, okay.”

Savannah struggled to keep up with her. “What if it’s not Cole?”

“It’s Cole!” Emily said. “Trust me!”

“Do we have any choice?” Greg asked.

“No!”

“Okay, just askin’.”

She wasn’t sure if Savannah and Greg trusted her or not, but the kid didn’t resist as Emily pulled them through the living room. And she could hear Greg’s heavy footfalls following quickly on their heels.

They ran past the balding man she’d shot earlier, then the Blob. Barton’s body was next. Flies scattered as they approached, then quickly resumed their infestation over the bodies once they’d passed.

The whup-whup-whup of the helicopter grew louder as they neared the kitchen door. It was now concentrated in the backyard, and Emily could glimpse objects flying across the windows as it descended. There was no doubt about it now: It really was landing in her backyard, and that could only mean one thing:

Cole.

Cole!

The bang-bang! of a pistol firing.

Emily slowed down just enough to glance over her shoulder. Greg was shooting at a figure in the New York Yankees ballcap as it raced through the living room after them. Greg was trying to shoot the man anyway.

Emily let go of Savannah’s arm and turned around.

Boom! as the psycho—he was just a kid, maybe not even fifteen—was knocked off his feet by the shotgun blast.

Greg looked back at her, his face flushed red. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Emily said. “Let’s get out of here.”

She led them through the door and into the backyard.

Emily thought she was prepared for it but was still caught by surprise by the powerful whirlwind generated by the helicopter’s rotors. The Bell itself sat almost perfectly in the middle of her backyard, a man with a full beard looking out of the cockpit window at her as she and Savannah, with Greg in the back, braved the currents to reach them.

Emily clutched Savannah’s arm to keep the teenager from being tossed back by the spinning rotors, while still keeping the Remington in her right hand. She had to squint through the swirling vortex as they made their way toward the aircraft. She didn’t know how she knew that it was waiting for them—that it’d come here for them—but she did. She just knew.

A figure hopped out of the chopper’s open side hatch and ran toward them. It was a man and he was alone, though there were others inside the Bell in the background. Civilians, from what she could tell, all strapped into their seats.

Emily focused on the man jogging toward her.

She smiled.

Cole.

Of course it was Cole.

He grabbed her in a bear hug, his lips finding hers in a quick—painfully quick—kiss.

Then he pulled back slightly and smiled.

And she smiled back.

“Go,” he said. Quietly. Ridiculously quietly.

She did, taking Savannah and Greg with her.

Bang-bang! from behind her.

She glanced back to find Cole standing with a Glock in his hand. A man that had come out of the kitchen door behind them was on the ground. She recognized the suit and tie. George Benson.

Emily pushed Savannah toward the chopper. “Go!” Then it was Greg’s turn: “Go go go!”

They went.

Emily hurried back to Cole as he was backpedaling toward her, already firing again.

A woman in boots and a one-piece sunflower dress crumpled to the grass. She’d followed George Benson out of the kitchen door.

Cole looked back as she approached. “What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive,” she said.

Boom! as she shot a big man in white overalls covered in paint and blood as he rounded the corner of their house.

Emily reloaded and smiled at her husband. “You’re late,” she shouted over the roar of the chopper.

He grinned. “Sorry about that. I had my hands full the last few days.”

“Excuses, excuses. So where are we going, by the way?”

“Anywhere but here.”

She nodded. It was the best answer she’d heard in the last three days.

They backed up as more psychos came out of the house and from around its corners. It didn’t matter. She fired and reloaded, and Cole took over. Then, when it was her turn, she fired while he reloaded.

And they retreated toward the chopper the entire time.

The psychos kept coming, no doubt drawn by the presence of the helicopter. Not that it mattered. She had enough shells for all of them, and when Cole ran out of bullets, he grabbed the Glock from her holster and resumed shooting.

“You guys coming or what?” a voice called from behind them.

Emily glanced back at a thin black kid fastened to his seat inside the chopper. Savannah and Greg, she saw, were already strapped in next to him.

“Well?” the black kid said.

Emily grinned back at him. “Coming!”

She turned and hurried to the helicopter, feeding more shells into the shotgun as she went. Cole was right beside her. They didn’t really run, but they didn’t walk, either. Not that she was afraid either way, because Cole was next to her. And as long as that was a reality, she didn’t give a damn what the world threw at them today, tomorrow, or the days after that.

They climbed into the chopper, and Cole shouted at the pilot, “Go go go!”

The bearded man held up an acknowledging hand, just before the Bell began to lift off the ground.

A woman in red joggers came out of the house and stood in the backyard looking up after them. She shouldn’t have, because another psycho came out from behind her and shoved some kind of long metal rod through her back.

Emily looked away from the scene below her and at the people gathered in the chopper with her. The black kid that she’d already seen, but there was also a girl in her twenties and what looked like a mother and her child.

“I’m Zoe,” the woman said, leaning across the small space to shake her hand. “This is my daughter, Ashley.”

The girl, for some reason, saluted her.

Emily smiled. “Emily.”

“We know,” Zoe said, smiling back.

“We heard all about you,” the other, younger woman said.

“All good things, I hope,” Emily said.

The young woman nodded at Cole, sitting beside her. “He said you were the key to keeping us alive.”

“Did he?” Emily looked over at Cole. “Why me?”

“Lars,” Cole said.

Emily’s eyes widened. “Lars?”

Cole nodded.

Lars, Emily thought. It was a name she hadn’t thought about in a long time, but it made perfect sense, given what was happening.

“Lars,” she said, nodding.

The chopper ascended higher into the sky, her dream house and the subdivision of Arrow Bay fading in the background below her. Emily watched as it got smaller, the dots that were people—and maybe dogs—racing around down there, assaulting one another, becoming unrecognizable after a while.

So much for my boring retirement.

Cole, sitting next to her, was smiling. She returned it, before reaching over and taking his hand, then placing it over her stomach.

His smile broadened, and so did hers.

The Fall Continues…

The first 3 days was only the beginning.

Now the real fight for survival begins.

Firebase, Book 3 in the Fall of Man series is now available for pre-order.