MIDNIGHT DUETS

CONTENTS

Walk the Sky

Robert Swartwood & David B. Silva

Bloodstained Oz

Christopher Golden & James A. Moore

A Necessary End

Sarah Pinborough & F. Paul Wilson

About the Authors

Copyright

There is no death, only a change of worlds.

— NATIVE AMERICAN PROVERB

“Boss?”

“Yeah.”

“I think she’s still alive.”

“Say again?”

“Look at her chest. She’s still breathing.”

“Christ. This is the last ... where are you going?”

“To get the doc.”

“Don’t.”

“Boss?”

“I’m thinking.”

“About what? She needs the doc.”

“I know that. But the election ...”

“What about it?”

“It’s coming up soon.”

“So?”

“I don’t think we have much choice here.”

“About what?”

“We need to kill her.”

Utah Desert, 1875

part one

DED

1.

They had been on the run for nearly a week when they found the dead boy.

It was George who spotted him. Clay had to squint and raise a hand to shadow the sun before he could make out the boy—only a faint form up on the hill beneath the shade of a dying tree that was maybe four hundred yards away.

“What do you think?” George asked.

Clay gave it a moment’s thought. “I think we could certainly rest for a bit.”

They had crossed over the Colorado border a day or two before, were now trudging through the Utah desert. They hadn’t seen any men or women since then. They hadn’t encountered any white or Indian towns or settlements. Their supplies were in a very sorry state, and it had been days since either of them had had a proper meal.

As they rode up the hill, Clay glanced back toward the eastern horizon. “Do you think we still have a day on them?”

George grunted. “Only if we’re lucky.”

Now less than thirty yards away from the boy, the horses became spooked. Both men had to tighten their reins and circle back toward the tree and the boy. When it became clear the horses wouldn’t advance any farther, the men dismounted and tied the horses to a tree.

They started toward the boy, but after several paces George stopped and held out a hand.

“Do you hear that?”

Clay cocked an ear. “Hear what?”

“Flies. Doesn’t sound like too many.”

“What are you thinking?”

“The boy hasn’t been dead very long.”

They continued on. Clay expected an ungodly stench—the boy’s decayed body or at least his loosened bowels—but all he could smell was the acrid desert air.

The closer they got to the boy, the slower they walked.

“Can it be?” George whispered.

“What?”

“I think he’s alive.”

Clay squinted down at the boy. They had just reached the shade of the tree but the sun was still high in the sky, blasting down its unforgiving glare. Besides that, George had ten years on Clay—Clay who had just turned forty earlier this year—and the younger man’s eyesight was much better. But still, now that he looked, he saw that yes, the boy’s chest was rising slowly, almost imperceptibly, but it was enough to confirm that he was in fact alive.

George extended his boot and nudged the boy’s leg.

The boy did not respond.

George nudged the boy’s leg again, this time with more force.

The boy began to stir. His eyes drifted open and he looked up at Clay and George as if in a dream before his eyes drifted shut ... and then suddenly they opened again and he bolted upright.

“Easy now,” George said, holding out his hands, “we’re not gonna hurt you.”

That, Clay knew, might be hard for the boy to believe considering both men no doubt looked like outlaws: unshaven faces, tired eyes, Winchesters strapped over their shoulders.

“It’s true,” Clay said, trying to bring as much comfort into his voice as he could. “We were just passing by and saw you. We thought ... we thought you were dead.”

He said it good-naturedly, a smile on his face, but at the word the boy stiffened. He glanced out toward the desert, past the trees toward the mountains, then back at them. His entire body had begun to tremble.

“What now?” George whispered.

Clay said, “Offer him some water.”

“We don’t have much left.”

“I think right now he needs it more than us.”

George walked back to the horses, retrieved his canteen, and returned to the tree’s shade. He shifted the canteen back and forth as he unscrewed the cap, letting Clay hear just how little water was left. He knelt, slowly, and extended the canteen to the boy.

The boy didn’t move. He just sat there, staring back at George with fear in his eyes.

“Go ahead,” George said. “Take a sip.”

The boy’s gaze shifted to Clay, then back to George, before he slowly reached out and took the canteen. He placed it to his lips, taking first a sip, then a hungrier swallow.

“Slow down,” George said.

The boy’s Adam apple bobbed up and down.

“That’s enough,” George said, reaching for the canteen, but the boy wouldn’t let go. He tried to pull away. George grabbed hold of the strap and yanked it from the boy. What little water was left in the canteen splattered the ground.

“Shit,” George said as he stood up.

Clay stepped forward and leaned toward the boy. “What’s your name?”

The boy just stared back at him.

“Your name,” Clay said. “What do people call you?”

Still nothing.

Clay tried a different approach. “Where did you come from?”

Again nothing.

George said, “I don’t think he’s right in the head.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just look at his face. I think ... I think he was born dumb.”

The hesitation in George’s voice was slight, but it was enough for Clay to catch and to understand.

He studied his friend for a moment—George who was now looking off in the distance—before turning back to the boy.

“My name is Clay. This is George. Those are our names, what people call us. What do people call you?”

The boy kept staring back at him.

“Something doesn’t feel right,” George said.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere. Just where exactly did he come from?”

“He certainly didn’t drop out of the sky. He had to come from somewhere close.”

“But why is he by himself?”

“Maybe he’s run away.”

“Maybe”—George hesitated again—“maybe somebody abandoned him.”

There was a brief silence. Around them, cicadas trilled.

“Whatever the case may be,” Clay said finally, “the fact that he’s here right now means there must be a town nearby.”

At this the boy stiffened again.

Clay leaned down even closer to the boy. “What? What is it?”

The boy, of course, said nothing.

“Town,” Clay said, and when he saw the flinch in the boy’s face, he asked, “Is there a town nearby?”

The boy made no reaction at first. Then, slowly, he nodded.

George stepped forward. “Where is it? How far?”

The boy pointed off toward the mountains.

“All right,” George said, turning to Clay. “Let’s take him back.”

The boy cried out, making a sound that might have been a distant relative to the word no. It was clear to Clay then that the boy may not be deaf, but he was certainly mute.

“Why not?” Clay asked.

The boy just stared back at him, trembling.

“You don’t want us to take you back into town?”

The boy shook his head.

“Why not?” Clay repeated, thinking that the question was useless, the boy was going to ignore him again.

But the boy leaned forward. He reached out and placed a finger in the dirt. He moved it around until he’d written three crude letters. A misspelling, yes, but the meaning of the word was clear enough:

2.

They stood side by side out of earshot from the boy, staring off toward the mountains.

“My vote?” George said. “I think we should check it out.”

“You saw what he wrote. He wrote dead.”

“He wrote three letters in the dirt. They might not mean what we think they mean.”

“What if they do?”

“Then there’s nothing we can do to change it. But right now we need supplies. Especially water.”

Clay glanced over his shoulder at the boy, who now stood in the shade of the tree, looking scared out of his wits. The boy’s arms were long and thin, his face narrow and painted thick with dirt. His hair was long and brown and looked as if it had been washed in mud. Clay figured the boy was twelve, maybe thirteen years old.

“I don’t like it.”

“You got another idea?”

“Let’s just keep riding. Sooner or later we’ll cross another town.”

“And if we don’t?”

Clay glanced over his shoulder again. “Something made that boy very afraid.”

“Nothing to lose by taking a look. We don’t like what we find, we keep moving. But remember, we need water. What was in that canteen? That was our last.”

They returned to their horses and walked them back to the boy. The horses, though still slightly spooked, were not as obstinate this time.

George mounted his horse and extended his hand to the boy. “You can ride with me.”

The boy’s eyes grew wide. He shook his head and took a step back.

“See?” Clay said. “The kid’s scared.”

George crossed his hands over the horn of his saddle and stared down at the boy. “We’re not going to leave you here. But neither can we stay here. Me and my friend, we need to keep riding for our own sake. But we’ll protect you. I promise you that.”

The boy didn’t move at first. He stared back up at George for several long seconds before regarding Clay. Then, after some thought, the boy made the only choice a man could make under the circumstances: he took George’s hand.

George pulled the boy up onto the back of his horse, made sure he was secure. Then he looked at Clay.

“Ready?”

*   *   *

The desert could play tricks on you if you weren’t careful. It could make you believe it wasn’t nearly as hot as it felt. It could shimmer with the sight of water that wasn’t really there. It could fool you into thinking the next mountain was just an hour away when it was no closer than a full day’s ride.

It was truthful this time.

They entered the outskirts of town in just under an hour.

The first building they passed was the schoolhouse. It may not have been apparent to the occasional passerby—it certainly wasn’t to George, who rode past the weathered building without giving it so much as a glance—but Clay noticed. After all, he was a schoolteacher. Had been a schoolteacher, he reminded himself, back in his past life. Back before everything had fallen apart.

But Clay didn’t want to think about that. There wasn’t much he could do about it now anyway. Their current situation, however, weighed heavily on his mind.

The boy had written DED in the dirt.

So where were the bodies?

Where was the blood?

If they weren’t dead, where were the townsfolk?

They rode past the Liberty Stables and Blacksmith Services. They rode past the Red Queen Saloon. They rode past the Dover’s Creek Bank. The office of Malcolm Jenkins, M.D. The assayer’s office. Even the jailhouse.

Not a soul in sight.

Not a sound in the air except the whisper of the wind.

George pulled up in front of Goodman’s Mercantile, dismounted, and helped the boy off the back of the horse.

“Where is everybody?” Clay asked.

“Dead, I suppose.” George hitched his horse to the post, nodded at the boy. “Isn’t that what he wrote?”

“Then where are the bodies?”

“We won’t stay more than an hour. We’ll get what we need here and be on our way.”

Clay dismounted, tied his horse to the post, and kept the boy in front of him as they followed George into the mercantile.

With the daylight at their backs it was an easy glance around the place to get a feel for the layout. Wooden display cases formed three aisles. To the left, there were foodstuffs and cooking utensils. Down the middle were racks of clothing, shoes and boots. Down the right were tools and riding gear, leading to the very back of the store where Mr. Goodman sold guns and ammunition.

“Is this a mining town?” Clay asked.

“Not sure. Why?”

“In that crate over there. Isn’t that dynamite?”

George came over and took a peek. “I believe it is. Stay away from it. That stuff can be unpredictable.”

As George drifted toward the foodstuffs, Clay went down the far right aisle looking for canteens. The longer they were going to be traveling through the desert, the more water they would need to carry.

Some five minutes later, Clay had four canteens over one shoulder and was giving close look at a couple of kerosene lanterns. He straightened and stretched, and noticed George at the front register, the counter piled high with beans and jerky, hard cheese and buckwheat. Clay gave the mercantile a once over, and called out to George, “Where’s the boy?”

“Thought he was with you.”

“Was,” Clay said. He drifted out to the middle aisle and gave a long look toward the back of the store, then back to the front. It was odd and more than a little unsettling that the boy had gone and disappeared on them. “Not anymore.”

“Maybe he’s outside.”

Clay came out of the dusty wash of light carrying the four canteens, and two lanterns. “Now all we need to do is find some water and we’ll be set.”

George nodded. He returned to the counter, loaded a gunnysack with the foodstuffs, and slung it over his shoulder. Before he stepped away, he placed a ten dollar gold piece on the counter.

“Best be on our way,” he said.

They went through the front door of Goodman’s Mercantile, their arms loaded, and made it as far as the edge of the plank walkway before stopping.

The boy hadn’t gone far after all. He stood in the dry, dusty bed of the town’s main street, his hands tied behind his back, looking like a ghost of himself. Next to him was the first of four horses. Sitting on the four horses were four men Clay had never seen before. And in the hands of each of the men was a drawn gun.

The man on the horse next to the boy said, “Ain’t in no rush now, are you?”

3.

The men bound their hands behind their backs and tied dusty kerchiefs in their mouths. Two of the men took their supplies back into the mercantile, and when they returned minutes later one of them was holding up the ten dollar gold piece George had left behind.

“Look what we found,” the man said with a grin.

“Yeah,” said the other one, “they must be tryin’ to pay their way into heaven.”

The fourth man—the one who hadn’t spoken yet—said, “Put it back.”

The first man’s grin faded. “Huh?”

“We have no need for gold, especially when it’s not our own. Put it back where you found it.”

“But—”

“Do it now.”

The man’s shoulders dropped. His eyes lowered. He nodded and turned and hurried back into the mercantile, only to emerge twenty seconds later with a somber look on his face.

“You know what God does to liars and thieves?” The leader—this was how Clay saw him, tall and heavy-bearded with deep authority in his voice—did not wait for a reply. “Now let’s get these men back to town. The Reverend will be happy with this latest bounty the Lord has given us.”

*   *   *

The men placed Clay on George’s horse, George on Clay’s horse. The boy they placed behind George. It was awkward riding like this with your hands tied behind your back, the threat of losing your balance a constant worry, but the men took them at a modest pace and they arrived at the next town less than two hours later.

Just like the last town, this one wasn’t large, only a couple buildings along the main street. Unlike the last town, this one contained people. Just a few, all men standing along the street watching them, but still there was life here. This town wasn’t, as the boy had crudely written in the dirt, DED.

They eventually came to the jailhouse. The men dismounted. They took the boy down from George’s horse, then took down George. They left Clay where he was for a minute, and Clay had the crazy notion that they were going to kill him right there on the horse. The leader—the one with the heavy beard and deep voice—would pull out his gun and shoot Clay right between the eyes.

Clay even lowered his head and closed his eyes, said a quick prayer, in case this was the plan.

Then, before he knew it, the men were taking him off the horse, their strong hands gripping his arms and legs. It would have been so much easier had the men at least freed his hands, allowed him to dismount the horse himself, but instead they went through the rigmarole until he had his two feet planted on the ground.

“All right then,” said the leader, “take ’em inside.”

They were ushered into the jailhouse. Here there was nothing more than a desk with a lamp on top. Three separate cells took up the rest of the space. Each cell had a short bench against the brick wall barely wide enough to support a grown man.

The door of the cell on the left was jerked open, its hinges screeching loudly. They shoved George inside. The boy went in the middle cell, Clay in the last.

“Listen,” the leader said. “Roy is going to stay here and keep an eye on you. He has orders to shoot you if you do something he don’t like. Understood?”

Clay and George didn’t answer.

The leader cleared his throat. “I said, understood?”

They nodded.

“Now all of you turn around so Roy can take off those ropes.”

Both Clay and George did as the man said. The boy did not. He stood at the bars and began to mewl.

Roy stepped forward and shouted, “Shut up!” He kicked at the bars, his boot up high toward the boy’s face. The boy skittered back and stumbled over his own feet and went down hard. “That’s what you get,” Roy said with a laugh. Then, staring down at the boy: “Joe, does this one look familiar to you?”

The leader didn’t step forward for a closer look. He just shook his head and said, “Don’t matter either way. Now, do as I say and take off those ropes.”

Roy went first to George and undid the ropes around George’s wrists. Then he went to Clay and did the same. Both men took the kerchiefs out of their mouths.

“What about the boy?” George asked.

Roy said, “What about him?”

“You just can’t leave him in there like that.”

Roy seemed to find this quite funny. Joe just stood there, his mouth a tight line. When Roy’s laughter quieted, Joe turned and started toward the door. “Nothing foolish now, you hear?”

Neither Clay nor George made a response. Even when Joe walked through the door and left them with Roy they said nothing. They just stood at the bars in their separate cells, while the boy lay crying on the floor in his own cell between them, and watched Roy leaning against the desk, a grin on his face, his hand resting on the holster of his gun.

*   *   *

How much longer before the door opened again, Clay didn’t know. Time had seemed to take on a strange quality inside the jailhouse. A minute could have passed. An hour could have passed. All he knew for certain was the sun was still in the sky and that he and George and the boy were now sitting on their individual benches in their individual cells. Then the door opened and they all looked up, expecting to see Joe again.

Only it wasn’t Joe.

Walking toward them, a jug in one hand and two tin cups in the other, was Clay’s dead daughter.

4.

At once Clay and George stood up from their individual benches and approached the bars of their individual cells. Clay exchanged a glance with George, and knew his friend saw the same thing he did.

The resemblance was remarkable.

This woman had the same blond hair that turned an autumn reddish brown when Ellie was out of the sun. The same winter-blue eyes. A similar summer white dress to the one Ellie loved to wear all year round.

Clay was in a trance, staring at her, when the boy suddenly popped up from his own bench and hurried to the bars. His hands were still tied behind his back, the kerchief still in his mouth, so all he did was mewl urgently.

The woman turned to Roy who was loafing on the chair behind the desk, looking on with amusement. “Why isn’t this boy free of his bindings?”

Roy shrugged. “His own fault. He didn’t follow the rules. Why are you here anyway?”

“To give them water. I only brought two cups. I knew nothing of the boy.”

“With that kerchief in his mouth,” Roy said with a grin, “he can’t do much drinkin’ anyhow.”

She turned back to the cells and approached Clay first. She came up very close. She mouthed: You are not safe.

There was an ever so subtle downturn to her lips that reminded Clay of Ellie once again. He found his thoughts flashing back to a series of memories he had hoped he would never have to revisit. Hearing noises through the parlor window. Walking outside to find his daughter and Bolton’s son in the backyard. Seeing what Bolton’s son was doing to his daughter. Feeling a rise of rage unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Releasing that rage on the young man ...

Clay blinked as the woman handed him one of the tin cups. Her eyes shifted up to meet his, looking to see if he had understood her. He said nothing, because now, with the woman so close, he was able to see past the similarities to Ellie. This woman’s eyes, even in winter-blue, reflected an injured, haunted soul. And the lines that formed the story of her face were sketched in anguish and mistrust.

Without another word the woman poured water into the cup. She risked another look at Clay, then made her way down to George. She gave him the second tin cup and mouthed the same four words.

George nodded slightly, thanked her for the water, and raised the cup to his lips.

The woman turned to Roy. “This boy needs water as well. Would you be so kind as to take off his ropes?”

Roy shook his head. “No, ma’am. Don’t think Joe would like that none.”

The woman started to say something else when the jailhouse door opened.

Through the door stepped a man of small stature, barely taller than the woman. Slight in the shoulders, thin in the face, his eyes dark wells. His jaw line was sharp and firm and displayed the assured presence of power and authority.

“Gentlemen”—the man’s voice boomed—“my name is Reverend Titus Willard, and I would like to welcome you to our town.”

The woman slowly stepped away from the cells, distancing herself from the trio behind the bars.

“I do so humbly apologize for the circumstances that brought you here, my friends. I am told they were most unfortunate and unpleasant. However, now that you are here, let me be the first to tell you just how grateful we are for your presence. God has indeed blessed us all.”

“Let us out and we’ll hurry on our way,” George said. “We won’t cause you no trouble.”

“It will be my pleasure to set you free, but I am afraid you misunderstand the situation—and rightfully so, under the circumstances.” The Reverend’s voice was both magnetic and fervent. “However, let me assure you, there is no need to hurry on your way. In fact, I would be honored if you would join us for dinner tonight. As my way of asking forgiveness for the trouble we have put you through.”

George said, “That won’t be necessary.”

“I insist.”

“We would be happy to join you,” Clay said. He could feel George’s heated gaze on him and quickly added, “However, my friend is right. We need to be on our way after the meal. Hope you don’t mind. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

“I am certain you do,” the Reverend said. He motioned for the woman to leave. She left with the jug in hand. The Reverend nodded at Roy who stood and approached the cells, pulling a single key from his pocket. “In the meantime, we will be honored by your presence.”

“Reverend?” George said. “Our boy here wasn’t treated too nice by your men. They wouldn’t untie him.”

The Reverend peered down at the boy through the bars. “I see that is so. Roy, why wasn’t this young man at least untied for the time being?”

Roy looked down at his feet. “Reverend, Joe said—”

“I don’t care what Joe said. Untie the boy now.”

Roy nodded and hurried to the middle cell. The boy, who had been mewling quietly this entire time, backed away from the bars.

“Come here,” Roy said. When the boy wouldn’t, Roy inserted the key into the lock, turned it, and opened the cell door.

The boy backed against the brick wall.

“Reverend?” George said. “The boy doesn’t seem too fond of your man. Maybe me or my friend should untie him instead.”

The Reverend thought this over for a moment. “Of course. Roy,” he said, motioning at Clay, “let this gentleman out first.”

Roy used the same key to open Clay’s cell.

Clay stepped out cautiously. The Reverend seemed to want them to feel welcome, but it was difficult to believe after everything that had happened so far today.

He set the tin cup aside and went into the middle cell where the boy still had his back against the wall.

“Shh,” Clay said quietly. “It’s okay.”

The boy seemed to relax a bit. The mewling sound faded. He gave Clay no trouble when Clay undid the ropes around his wrists, or when Clay took the kerchief out of his mouth.

“Excellent,” the Reverend said, smiling.

Roy opened George’s cell. The door screeched again. Roy stepped back to let George walk out, but George didn’t move.

“Is there a problem, my friend?” the Reverend asked.

“The other town,” George said. “What happened to all the townsfolk?”

The Reverend’s smile faded. “I am afraid they’ve succumbed.”

“Succumbed?”

“They are all dead.”

“All of them?” Clay said. “The entire town?” Thinking of the three letters the boy had written in the dirt under the shade of that tree.

“I am afraid so.”

“How?”

“Why,” the Reverend said, his voice all at once somber, “the same way such things always occur in the darkness of this world. At the hands of the Devil.”

5.

The boy did not accompany them to dinner. Once he was free from his bindings, he seemed to settle down. Roy took the boy away in a different direction than the one Reverend Titus Willard led Clay and George, down the main street to a house at the end. Inside, the woman was already waiting for them, now wearing an apron.

“Gentlemen,” the Reverend said, “I know your paths crossed briefly already, but I would like to formally introduce you to my lovely wife Marilyn.”

Clay was momentarily taken aback. Marilyn was very much younger than the Reverend. It wasn’t unheard of that a man would take on a young bride, but the difference in age was maybe thirty years, if not more.

“Please, please,” the Reverend said, “you gentlemen are guests in my home, so please, do make yourselves comfortable.”

He led them into the dining room, where a long wooden table was already set. He showed each man to his seat in an overdramatic flourish, and then sat down at the head of the table.

“I hope you gentlemen are hungry. God has blessed this occasion with a mighty feast indeed.”

Clay wasn’t sure what he expected the dinner to be—surely nothing extravagant despite the Reverend’s claims—but he was quite surprised and pleased when Marilyn brought in first potatoes, followed by beans and biscuits, and then, finally, a large, juicy chicken.

Once all the food had been served and Marilyn took her place at the table beside her husband, the Reverend asked, “Would either of you gentlemen care to say grace?”

There was a beat of silence. A grandfather clock ticked in the next room.

Clay cleared his throat. “I would be happy to.”

All four of them folded their hands and bowed their heads.

“Dear Heavenly Father,” Clay began, “thank you for the food we are about to receive, and thank you for the generous hospitability the kind Reverend Willard has given us. Amen.”

The Reverend nodded. “That was mighty nice. Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Thank you for feeding us.”

“My pleasure,” the Reverend said, smiling broadly. “Now, please, help yourselves.”

“What about the boy?” George asked.

“What about him?”

“Isn’t he joining us?”

The Reverend produced that broad smile again. “No, he’s eating with the other children. I assumed he would be more comfortable among those his own age.”

“Where are the other children?”

“They’re safe. Why do you ask?”

George hesitated. “He’s just my nephew, is all. I worry about him.”

“As I imagine you would. Now please, do help yourself before the food gets cold.”

They dug in. Clay, who hadn’t had a proper meal in over a week, had to control himself to not eat too much at once. Everything—the potatoes, the beans, the chicken—was delicious.

After a few minutes, George said, “So what happened to the other town?”

“Hmm?” the Reverend said, chewing on a chicken leg.

“You said they were dead. That it was the work of the Devil. What did you mean by that?”

“You didn’t tell me. Where were you three headed? I am assuming, of course, you came from out east. Illinois, perhaps?”

“Missouri,” George said.

“Ah yes,” the Reverend said, pleased with himself. “I was close. Wasn’t I, dear?”

Marilyn, who still hadn’t spoken a word since they arrived, nodded as she kept her gaze on her plate.

“My nephew,” George said. “We were taking him out to California. That’s where my sister is.”

“Is that right?” the Reverend said musingly, helping himself now to one of the potatoes. His gaze shifted to Clay. “So then if he’s his uncle, what does that make you?”

Clay, like George, hesitated for only a beat. “I’m his uncle as well.”

“I see,” the Reverend said. “Well, I trust both of you are God-fearing folk?”

Both men nodded.

“Then you understand the Lord acts in mysterious ways. We do not always know what it is He wants for us, but we are free to ask. ‘If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.’ James, chapter one, verse five. Tell me, what do you know of the Devil?”

Clay and George exchanged a glance.

“He’s a fallen angel,” Clay said.

“Yes, and he’s quite wicked. He uses our earth as his playground and does as he wishes. He thinks his mischief goes unnoticed by God, but the Lord notices all. And his Heavenly Father protects those that maintain their belief in Him. That is why, gentlemen, myself and my bride and the rest of those faithful in this town are still here today.”

George asked, “And why those in the other town are dead?”

Reverend Titus Willard nodded empathetically. “Not just that town, either. This whole area of the earth has been overrun by the Devil’s minions.”

“The Devil’s minions,” Clay said.

The Reverend nodded again. “Yes, absolutely. They have scoured this part of the earth looking for more human souls.”

“So why are you still here?” George asked.

“Pardon?”

“If something is terrorizing the area, why not just pick up and leave?”

“Young man,” the Reverend said, his voice going low, “don’t you think we have already tried? It was one of the first things we did when we realized the danger. Well, it was one of the first things our sheriff did when he realized the danger. He got a group together to try to leave. I myself had been praying to God and knew leaving would not be an option. I tried telling everyone that we needed to stay. Sadly, they would not listen. So the sheriff took his group, about maybe half the town. They were gone most of the day when a few survivors returned. There were only two of them, and they were covered in blood and near death. Regrettably they died the next day, but before they did they told us what took place. How the Devil’s minions attacked them. How the Devil’s minions killed everyone.”

Quite suddenly, Clay lost what little appetite he had left. He was ready to leave, turn his back on all of this foolishness and continue on toward California. Their lead on Bolton and Logan and whatever men they had rounded up was diminishing by the minute.

“Reverend,” George said, clearing his throat, “I think maybe my friend and I will collect the boy and—”

“Just how strong is your faith? Do you both consider yourselves soldiers in the Lord’s army? Because that is exactly what we need to keep this town safe. God can only provide so much; man must do his part to answer the call. This is, after all, why the Lord has spared me and my flock thus far, and why He has brought the two of you here to this town. You are to become warriors against these demons of the night.”

There was a heavy silence again. The grandfather clock continued to tick in the next room.

“Ma’am,” George said, turning to Marilyn, “I thank you for the meal, but I believe it’s time my friend and I be on our way.”

He nodded at Clay and pushed his chair back and started to stand—Clay doing the same—when the Reverend spoke.

“Gentlemen, I urge you to reconsider. It is not the place of man to mistrust the Lord.”

Another moment passed, both men now completely standing, and when it was clear that neither Clay nor George was ready to humor the Reverend any further, their host clapped his hands twice.

And suddenly Joe and Roy appeared, stepping into the room, both with pistols drawn and aimed at Clay and George.

Reverend Titus Willard shook his head solemnly. “My heart is quite heavy now for the choice you gentlemen have made, but it is clear that you both have made your choice. That is, after all, the greatest gift the Lord has given us: free will.”

“I think you misunderstood us,” Clay said. “We don’t mean you any harm. We’ll just collect the boy and be on our way. We don’t want any trouble.”

“I’m sorry,” the Reverend said, “but the boy’s fate has already been decided. The Lord decided it from the moment that boy was a gleam in his father’s eye. You see, that is part of the Lord’s beauty. He has a plan for everything. This morning I feared that He would not answer my prayers, but He has. He’s brought the three of you here. And your boy, sent by the Lord like manna from Heaven, will be tonight’s sacrifice.”

6.

Sacrifice.

The word instantly sobered Clay. It had been unnerving to see the guns drawn, but it had been devastating to hear the Reverend refer to the boy as a sacrifice.

Clay said, “He’s just a boy.”

“Believe me,” the Reverend said, “we do not take lightly what we must do. It is with heavy hearts and many sleepless nights that we do what is required of us. But it must be done if the town and its people are to survive. It is the only way. It is the Lord’s way.”

“To sacrifice a child?”

“It is easy to judge what you do not understand,” the Reverend said. He wiped a cloth napkin across the corners of his mouth, placed the napkin on the plate before him, and pushed back from the table. As he stood, he nodded in Joe’s direction.

Joe motioned for Clay to step around the table.

Roy motioned for George to do the same.

The Reverend let out a deep breath that seemed to fill the room. “I realize this is difficult, my friends. However—”

“It’s crazy is what it is,” George muttered.

“However,” the Reverend repeated with emphasis, his fiery gaze now locked on George, “you need to understand that this town has fallen under the plague of the Devil. For the past several weeks we have been visited nightly by his every unimaginable aberrance. These take the form of demons which, simply upon sight, are enough to drive a sane man to cower in the darkest corners of his mind. So as distasteful as it may be, my friend, a sacrifice is our only protection against these abominations. If not for a sacrifice, we would all be given to the Devil.”

George said, “Why don’t you sacrifice yourself?”

The Reverend’s face softened. It was an unpleasant transformation that bared a soul as dark as the Devil he feared.

“If only it were that simple. Someone has to lead the flock.”

“Generous of you to volunteer.” George turned his head. “Clay.”

“Yeah?”

“I think it’s time we leave.”

It happened quickly then. Suddenly George was moving, knocking the gun free from Roy’s hand and finishing with a right cross to the man’s jaw. The act surprised Clay, causing him to hesitate. But courage and fear fueled his soul and he stepped forward too, right at Joe. Joe raised the gun. Clay ducked and swatted the man’s hand. The gun went off—bang!—and Marilyn screamed as a piece of the ceiling fell. Clay, his ears ringing, pushed Joe hard enough against the wall that Joe lost his grip on the gun. It clattered to the floor.

“Run!” George shouted.

Clay ran. He took off for the nearest door. Through the archway, he turned left and sprinted down the hallway toward the front of the house, his footsteps nearly silent on the thick Oriental rug.

Somewhere not far behind him, he heard the Reverend let out a scream: “I want him alive! Bring him back alive!”

At the front door, Clay struggled with the knob momentarily, then the door flew open and he fell out onto the front porch. He was down the steps and into the dirt of the town’s main street before he even realized the sun had begun to set.

The final vestiges of light were strung across the sky above the horizon, leaving shadows strewn about the town like gathering ghosts.

Or demons, Clay thought as he stepped into one of the dark spots.

He caught movement in the dusk.

Three men, moving up the street. They had the boy with them, dragging him on a long length of rope as he kicked up dust struggling against his restraints.

It wasn’t dark enough yet for Clay to be comfortable in the shadows, but he stood as still as possible until another muffled shot went off back at the house. The noise sent a chill through him. He swallowed a breath, then glanced first at the house, where there didn’t appear to be any activity, then up the street at the men.

All three of them stopped and turned, curious. They exchanged a few words that Clay couldn’t hear, and then one of them broke away and hurried down the street toward the house.

He passed within feet of where Clay stood flat against the building.

Clay waited five seconds, then ten, before leaning his head out again.

The man who had hurried past was gone. The two others had continued on up the street, dragging the boy along.

Clay looked back at the house, wondering what had happened and if George was all right. Then he looked back up the street and wondered what he was supposed to do now.

Go back and help George, or try to free the boy from his captors.

He had no idea how he would go about doing either.

Clay decided of the two, George had the best chance of taking care of himself. It was the boy who most needed Clay’s help.

Once that decision was made, Clay stayed in the shadows of the buildings as he followed the men down the street to the center of town. There they tied the boy to a thick wooden post.

The boy, shedding frightened and angry tears, struggled against the bindings.

One of the men told him to be quiet and that this was God’s will.

Clay leaned back against the wall of a storefront, the edge of a rough-sawn board biting into his back before he straightened again.

What now?

He knew the Reverend was dangerous. He knew the Reverend’s men were dangerous. But he couldn’t be sure how much of the converter’s ravings could be believed and how much could be chalked up to corral dust.

Was this the Devil’s town?

Once sundown was complete and night filled in the shadows, would there be demons roaming the street, looking for a sacrifice?

Either way, the boy was set to spend the last of his time on this good earth tied to that damned post unless Clay could do something to stop it.

Back up the street behind him, everything was strangely quiet and still.

Clay had expected the Reverend’s men to come pouring out of the house in pursuit of him, but that hadn’t happened. He thought he could probably thank George for that. His friend had a way of occupying the attention of bad men.

The two men who had dragged the boy down the street and then tied him to the wooden post now hurried off, disappearing into the shadows.

Clay hugged the building and counted to ten in his head. Time was running out. The little light left in the sky was almost gone. If he was going to act, he needed to act now.

Clay held his breath, gaining all his courage, before he stuck his head out to peer around the corner.

And found himself staring straight into the barrel of Joe’s revolver.

The Reverend stepped out from behind his right-hand man. “I am disappointed in you, my friend. After we opened our home to you, shared our food with you, this is the way you repay us?”

“Let the boy go,” Clay said. “Take me instead.”

“I cannot decide whether you just are not trying or the lesson escapes you, but I do not think you understand the situation. Trust me on this; you cannot give back what God has given.”

Then a hand came down, the muzzle of Joe’s pistol slamming against the side of Clay’s face, and everything went black.

7.

Clay was dreaming.

He knew he was dreaming because he was back home, in the parlor, sitting in his chair and reading a book. The house was still and silent ... though it wasn’t. There was a shuffling sound coming from somewhere close by.

Hello? he called out, but because this was a dream his voice made no sound.

The shuffling continued, coming from outside.

He stood up and turned to the window.

Hello? he called out again.

The shuffling was even louder.

Because this was a dream he did not have to walk to the back door. All he had to do was blink and suddenly he was there.

The book was still in his hand. It felt like it weighed one hundred pounds.

That shuffling continued, louder now, and faintly, somewhere beyond it, a whimpering.

It was coming from outside, in the backyard. He knew that just as strongly as he knew this was a dream. He also knew what he would find once he opened the back door. The same thing he had found that terrible night a week ago.

His daughter and Bolton’s son.

What the young man was doing to his daughter.

Clay reached out, gripped the knob, turned it.

He opened the door.

The book fell from his hand.

Clay wanted to scream but he could not.

All he could do was stand there, listening to the shuffling, to the whimpering, and watch his daughter tied to a post as the demons moved in to feast.

*   *   *

He came to suddenly with a start but knew he was still dreaming. After all, he could still hear the shuffling outside. Only, he realized an instant later, this wasn’t a dream.

Despite the pain circulating around his head, Clay tried to sit up.

He couldn’t.

He lay on the floor on his side, his ankles bound, his wrists tied behind his back. There was a long piece of cloth tied around his mouth. It tasted like dirt. It made it impossible to speak but still he tried, creating a low gagging sound.

“Shh,” a familiar voice whispered. “Quiet now.”

He went still. It was dark but his eyes had begun to adjust. He saw the bars in front of him and quickly recognized it as the jailhouse. He tilted his head back and saw George on the floor in the far cell, also tied up and gagged. On the bench in the middle cell between them sat Reverend Titus Willard.

“Be very still,” the Reverend whispered. “Do you hear them?”

Outside, the shuffling continued, slow and steady. It sounded like a dozen people were sliding their feet across the dirt.

“That is them,” the Reverend whispered. “Those are the Devil’s minions. You did not believe me, but here they are.”

The shuffling, and beyond it, just like in his dream, Clay heard faint whimpering.

The boy.

Of course it was the boy.

Tied up to that post at the end of the main street.

Clay tried moving again, wanting to break free of his restraints, jump to his feet, rush outside to save the boy. It was a bold ambition but one that would never happen. Even if he wasn’t tied up like this, he doubted his worn body would allow him to act quick enough to rescue the boy.

“For weeks,” the Reverend whispered, “they have been coming to our town. Every night it sounds like more join their army.”

That slow and steady shuffling.

“And every night we give them their sacrifice, and they leave the rest of the town alone. It is what the Lord demands we do for the time being, before he delivers us from this evil.”

That distant whimpering, sad and pathetic.

“After we sacrificed the children, we had no choice but to start with the women.”

The whimpering growing more frantic before becoming an unintelligible shouting.

“It was difficult for the men to accept at first—even more difficult than it was to accept about the children—but they eventually saw it was the Lord’s will.”

That unintelligible shouting becoming a tortuous screaming.

“Some of the women tried to flee. They had allowed us to sacrifice their children, but when the Lord deemed them worthy of sacrifice, they became scared.”

That tortuous screaming going on ... and on ... and on ... until it became gargled.

“We had to track those women down. Some of them put up quite a fight. A few we had no choice but to kill. It was a waste, but they needed to be taught a lesson.”

That gargled screaming dimming out like a dying candle.

“The others,” the Reverend whispered, “we brought back and had to lock up. And every night, we took one of them out just like your boy. We tied her to the post and waited for the demons to come.”

The gargled screaming dimming and dimming, that candle almost burnt out.

“Earlier this week we sacrificed the last woman. Except, of course, my precious wife. The Lord has given me permission to allow her to live.”

The gargled screaming had stopped but the shuffling continued, Clay now staring past the bars at the window, at the dark night.

“After a while, they will leave us. And then the sun will rise on a new day, and we will all thank the Lord that we survived the night.”

Reverend Titus Willard shifted on the bench.

“Just remember, I gave both of you gentlemen the chance to be a part of this town. I tried to show you mercy, but you wanted none of it. And now here we are.”

Clay closed his eyes and saw his daughter tied to that post, screaming.

“Tomorrow night one of you will be chosen for sacrifice. If I were you, I would make my peace with the Lord to ensure my soul does not burn in those eternal flames like the rest of those demons.”

Clay opened his eyes and stared past the bars into the dark. He heard the Reverend’s words, but he didn’t. All he could hear was the shuffling, that slow and steady and continuous shuffling, all those dozens—no, hundreds—of demons outside, searching for a new sacrifice.

part two

POSSE

8.

Sheriff Jeremiah Logan picked up the gold coin off the glass counter of Goodman’s Mercantile and turned it over in his fingers.

“They were here.”

Fred Bolton stepped up next to him. “How do you know?”

Logan held up the gold piece and said, “George Hitchens is the only man I know foolish enough to leave payment for stuff he could just as easily walk off with.” Then he grinned and slipped the gold piece into his vest pocket.

Bolton looked uneasily around the store. This was the first town they had come across after a full day of riding, and it was completely deserted, as if the townspeople had just disappeared. The mayor couldn’t recall a time in his life when he’d felt as isolated and alone as he did right now. After the death of his son at the hands of Clay Miller, he’d been so filled with rage there wasn’t any room for the emptiness. But now, here ...

“What do you suppose happened to everyone?”

Logan shrugged. He absently wiped at the scar across his right check, where a drunk had once slashed him with a broken whiskey bottle just before Logan decked the man with the butt of his pistol.

“Don’t know.”

“It’s not natural.”

“Maybe so, but—”

Outside, an explosion of gunfire erupted.

Both men quickly turned to the front window of the mercantile, looking out on the street. They had put together a posse of five men to track Miller and Hitchens. Two of the men had dropped out the day before yesterday after one had encountered a rattler that left him with a superficial snakebite. The other three men were supposed to be out front, checking the nearby buildings.

“What the hell’s going on?” Bolton asked as the gunfire continued.

“Four men, on horses.” Logan drew his pistol, spun the cylinder to make sure there were no empty chambers. “Looks like they ambushed Samuel and Pete. Johnny’s got ’em pinned down from across the street, up high.”

“What do you plan on doing?”

“Making it a fair fight.”

Bolton grabbed the sheriff by the forearm. It was an instinctive grab and as he held it, his fingers began to tremble. Words caught in his throat, and he couldn’t bring himself to look his friend of many years in the eye, especially as the words finally forced their way free.

“It’s too late for that. You’ll let them know we’re here.”

Logan pulled his arm free from the mayor’s grip and raised the gun in the air. There was an expression of disgust etched in his face that Bolton would never forget.

“Please,” Bolton said. “You can’t leave me here.”

“No one’s holding you back.”

Logan’s body was pressed against the wall, his silver belt buckle buried under the bulk of his gut. He took a slow, deep breath. Then, in a move that defied his overlarge build, he rushed out the mercantile doors, gun blazing.

The sound was deafening.

Bolton fell back against the wall and did his best to watch the scene unfold through the front window without giving away his presence. His legs barely held him up as he witnessed Logan take out the first man with a shot that hit the man in the back of the head.

A spray of blood seemed to umbrella the entire area.

Bolton closed his eyes, saw a splash of red against the inside of his eyelids, and heard another shot go off. By the time his eyes opened again, he saw a second explosion of red as Johnny, from up high across the street, took out a second man.

In that moment, Bolton felt a spark of hope. Maybe things would go their way after all. Maybe it would all turn out okay and he’d live to see the sun rise in the morning.

But those hopes were shattered when the next shot slammed into the chest of his long-time friend. Logan teetered on the heels of his boots before falling backwards into a cloudy plume of dust.

Bolton sank to his knees, his legs no longer able to hold him.

He heard the scramble of men cross the plank walkway across the street, no doubt heading upstairs to do to Johnny what he had done to one of theirs. And then they would start going through the other buildings, one by one, looking for others. Sooner or later they were going to find him.

Oh sweet Jesus, they were going to find him.

There was another commotion outside.

Even though Bolton imagined they were coming for him, his curiosity took hold and he forced himself high enough on his knees to peer out through the window again.

Across the way, two men came out of the building, dragging Johnny by the arms. They dumped him in the middle of the street, where Bolton could see a red, oddly shaped stain on the front of the man’s shirt. It glistened in the sun.

Johnny, Bolton quickly understood, had been shot in the gut.

“How many others are there?”

Johnny lay on his back, in the middle of the street, his eyes tiny slits against the sun. His face wore the pinched and weathered expression of a man not only in agony but fear.

“One last time,” said the man standing over him. He was tall and lanky and redheaded, and he appeared to be the man in charge. “How many others?”

Johnny coughed up blood, but remained silent.

“Have it your way.”

Redhead cocked his pistol and fired a single shot into Johnny’s right leg.

A jolt shot through Johnny’s body, followed by an agonizing scream.

“One more,” he said. “Just one more. Bolton.”

“Where is he?”

Bolton had witnessed this all from the mercantile window, but the moment he heard his name, panic overtook him. He climbed to his feet and backed away from the window. The shakes took hold of his entire body. He could barely feel his feet under him.

What now?

What was he going to do now?

Hide.

He had to hide.

Bolton backed away from the window, his mind racing, his heart pounding. The mercantile was a good-sized store. He might be able to find a small space somewhere in the back where he could go undetected, a cubbyhole behind some merchandise or inside an old shipping crate. Or, with a little luck, there might even be an exit in the back.

There was room for hope.

Not much, but at least a little.

Bolton turned to move deeper into the store. As he did, his right knee slammed into the corner of a display table. He muttered, more in frustration than in pain, and tried to save a jar of penny candy from falling off the tabletop.

It was a failed effort.

The glass jar hit the floor, shattered, and sent a wave of round hard candies scattering in all directions.

The sound was loud enough to wake the dead.

Every muscle in Bolton’s body tensed and he stood there for a moment, frozen, as if he were eight years old again and hoping no one would notice the roar of the candies if he didn’t move.

“The mercantile!” someone shouted from outside.

That was more than enough to get Bolton moving again.

He hurried across the wooden floor, almost slipping on the candies but managing to keep his balance. He took cover behind a counter near the back just as two men came through the front doors. Bolton couldn’t see them, but he heard their footsteps stop just inside the entrance.

Silence.

Then, quietly, the footsteps began to move, one pair headed toward the far side of the mercantile, the other pair headed toward his side.

Bolton closed his eyes.

Seconds passed.

The footsteps continued.

A boot heel crushed one of the candies.

Bolton kept his eyes closed, praying—

please, God, don’t let them find me

—and only opened them again when the hammer of a pistol locked into place.

The barrel of a gun stared back at him.

9.

Like every other man, woman, and child who had been placed on the earth, Reverend Titus Willard was a sinner.

He had no misconceptions about this. Despite his station in life, despite the extremely heavy burden the Lord had recently placed on his shoulders, Willard knew he was just as sinful as the day he was born. That was why he had to say his prayers multiple times a day, to communicate as closely as he could with God and ask Him to wash his soul clean of the sin that would then begin to build as a new day began.

He was not delusional, either. He had seen the look in those men’s eyes last night at dinner. They hadn’t believed a thing he said. They thought he was mad. A lunatic. But they had come to believe him, hadn’t they? Of course they had. Seeing was believing (or, in their case, hearing was believing), but that wasn’t how faith worked.

Willard considered himself a humble man. He had always been humble, even as a boy. His father had not been a reverend but a simple farmer, and in the early mornings a young Titus would rise and help his father with the fields. It wasn’t until Titus’s mother died when Titus was eleven that Titus entered a church for the very first time. He knew who the Lord was and had always said his prayers like a good boy, but being in church that day, sitting in the rickety wooden pews among the rest of the parishioners, the young Titus had felt something stir in the depths of his soul.

From that day forward he made it a point to attend every Sunday service he could, despite the five-mile walk it took him. He never actually heard God speak to him, nor had he been given any other sign—not like Moses with the burning bush—but the young Titus knew God was there anyway. And so it was no surprise that, when his father died suddenly two years later, Titus abandoned the family farm and devoted himself completely to the teachings of God.

And honestly, everything was fine and dandy until just about two months ago, when the demons first appeared.

Willard could still remember seeing them off in the distance as the dusk began to thicken, only a few shuffling figures. He had been standing with a few others that evening, enjoying the company, and someone—the name now escaped him—had gotten on his horse and rode out to welcome the new arrivals. And then, quite suddenly, the figures attacked the man and his horse. Even having been five hundred yards away, Willard had heard the combined screams of the man and horse until they were abruptly cut off.

That was only the beginning.

Within days panic seized the town, as the figures returned night after night. There were always more of them. The sheriff—Lloyd Benson—convinced everyone they needed to pack their things and leave. Willard at first agreed this was the right thing to do. But then he prayed to the Lord, asking for guidance, and when he opened his King James Bible the first book he came to was Daniel and he read the verse that went And an host was given him against the daily sacrifice by reason of transgression, and it cast down the truth to the ground; and it practised, and prospered, and Willard knew what needed to be done. He called the townspeople together and explained that to keep them safe they needed a sacrifice. It was clear not many believed him. But he told them it had been revealed to him through God, that to save their town they would need to give the demons a sacrifice, and that only then would their town begin to prosper again. And after half the town left, only to be killed, it became clear to everyone else that Willard spoke the word of God. They agreed to the sacrifice.

It still pained his soul, thinking about every woman and child they had lost. He hated doing it, to each and every one, but there just wasn’t any other way to save the greater good. A lottery was created, and that was how they chose first the children, then, inevitably, the women.

Except Marilyn.

Willard had always had his eye on the young woman, ever since she was a girl. It was nothing perverted, either, just an appreciation for a striking beauty. And when the demons began to make their nightly visits, when all the children were sacrificed and it was then the women’s turn, Willard did the only thing he could think to do to ensure Marilyn’s safety: he married her.

She refused at first, telling him that was out of the question. Every day he asked her, and every day she refused. Until there were less than a dozen women left—he had purposely kept her name out of the lottery—and Marilyn came to him one day and agreed to his hand in marriage.

Their wedding was quite small. In fact, nobody was in attendance except for Willard, Marilyn, and the Lord. And then afterward? He had not had his way with her. She was his wife, yes, but he was not going to give in to his carnal needs. At least not by force. He was a sinner, but he was not a deviant.

And yet ...

The desire was there, that awful desire of the flesh, and this was what he was praying about today, for the Lord’s forgiveness for this prurient inclination.

He was in the chapel, on his knees before the large wooden cross hanging on the wall, his head bowed, saying his prayers.

He had just finished when he heard the thundering of horses outside. Their hooves striking the earth shattered the midday silence. Normally when Roy and Joe and the others returned, they did so quietly.

Which meant something had happened.

Which meant something was wrong.

Willard was up on his feet and outside in the matter of seconds. He hurried down the street just as the men rode into town, a cloud of dust growing in their wake.

This morning, a group of four men—Joe, Roy, Jacob, and Samuel—had left just as they did every morning, to keep an eye out for the demons and intercept anyone passing through. But now there were three men on horses, leading four horses without riders, and one of those men Reverend Titus Willard had never seen before.

“What happened?” he shouted as they stopped the horses in front of the jailhouse.

Roy dismounted his horse. “We were ambushed.” He wiped at his face, spat phlegm at the ground. “There was more of ’em than we thought.”

“How many?”

“Four, but we managed to take down three.”

“Where are Joe and Samuel?”

Roy just shook his head.

Willard felt himself shaking. Before his body had been tense from the sudden confusion of the moment, but now it was tense out of anger. He wanted to mourn the loss of his two men—he considered Joe his right-hand man, matter of fact—but right now he didn’t have time to mourn. That would come later, during his prayers. Now what he needed to do was to clear his head. He needed to think. But his mind was so overfilled with rage that, before he knew it, he jabbed a finger at the scared man on the horse.

“Get him down from there and inside!”

Roy and Jacob grabbed the man and pulled him off the horse, the man hitting the ground on his side and crying out. They yanked him to his feet and dragged him into the jailhouse, the entire time the man begging and pleading for them to let him go.

Willard was aware that others had drifted out into the street, that some of the men were now watching him from windows. He had acted impulsively and rashly. It was not how a man of God was supposed to act. A man of God was supposed to be in control of his emotions at all times.

He stared out at the men staring at him, took a breath, then turned and strode through the jailhouse door.

Roy and Jacob had just dragged the new man inside, and his begging and pleading had stopped.

There was a silence, and Willard wasn’t sure why until he noticed that the two men from last night were standing at the bars and the new man, the one being held by Roy and Jacob, was glaring back at them.

“What’s wrong?” Willard asked.

The new man didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, glaring back at the two behind the bars. Then something seemed to occur to him, and he blinked and looked at Willard for the first time.

“That man there,” he said, his voice cracking. “He—he—he killed my son.”

10.

The words hung heavy in the air, palpable, a scattering of dark clouds on a sunny day.

For a tense moment there was complete silence.

George and Clay stood behind the bars in their separate cells. George tilted his head slightly to catch a glimpse of Clay from the corner of his eye.

He wondered how this moment was affecting his friend.

It had been inevitable, of course. George had known from the beginning that sooner or later the mayor and the sheriff were going to catch up with them. A good man, an honest man, can’t run from his past and sleep restful nights. Not for long. Eventually, the burden becomes too heavy and he has to stop running. Clay hadn’t reached that point yet—at least George didn’t think he had—but he would have realized it soon enough.

The Reverend said, “Who killed your son?”

“Him.” Bolton raised a trembling hand and pointed a finger at Clay. “That man, Clayton Jessop Miller, murdered his own daughter and my son. And that man, George Michael Hitchens”—now pointing at George—“helped him escape justice. We’ve been tracking them for the better part of a week.”

“Your son was having his way with my daughter,” Clay said. He gripped the bars so tight the veins rippled across the back of his hands. “And you were the one who murdered my daughter. Not me.”

Bolton shook his head sadly. He said to the Reverend, “The man is delusional.”

Clay shouted, “I am telling the truth!”

“Enough,” the Reverend said without needing to raise his voice. The room fell silent. He turned to address Bolton. “You, sir, are in my town now. You have taken the lives of Joe and Samuel, two very good and trusted men who were born and raised here. I—”

“It wasn’t me,” Bolton said quickly. “I didn’t kill them.”

The Reverend gazed at him for a moment, his eyes stern and piercing.

“I am quickly reaching the end of my patience with you. Interrupt me again, and you will be jailed with the others and dealt with on terms that I am sure you will find most unpleasant. Do I have your attention?”

Bolton nodded.

A grin crossed George’s face. He’d never seen the mayor, who was a blowhard by nature and enjoyed nothing more than throwing his power around, humbled before. Bolton’s face remained stoic, though a slight tick wrenched at the corner of his mouth. It was a sight that George took great pleasure in witnessing.

“Now, while I am not a man without fault,” the Reverend continued, “I do my best to be fair and just in my dealings with others. If you have a story to tell, I suggest you tell it.”

“My name is Fred Bolton. I’m the mayor of Providence, Missouri. I came here seeking nothing more than justice. I, and the others who were with me, have been tracking these fugitives since they escaped our jail last week. As I’ve said, in a fit of rage, Clay Miller killed both my son and his own daughter. The other man, George Hitchens, was the town’s deputy sheriff. He helped the murderer escape.”

Behind the Reverend, who stood tall with his arms crossed, the door opened with a creak and Marilyn slipped through. She caught a quick glare from the Reverend and moved to one side with her back against the wall.

The Reverend turned his attention back to the jail cell. “Mr. Miller, I gather you see the events in a different light. Would you care to share your interpretation of what happened?”

“The mayor’s boy tried to have his way with my daughter. I pulled him off. He hit me. I pushed him away. He tripped and fell and struck his head against a rock in the backyard. It killed him instantly. It wasn’t on purpose. And it wasn’t murder.”

Clay’s hands tightened around the bars again, the veins bulging.

“What that man did to my daughter was murder. He killed her to save his career.”

“Liar!” Bolton shouted.

The Reverend raised a finger at Bolton. “I will not tell you again.”

Bolton bit his lip, his shoulders sagging.

“And Mr. Hitchens?” the Reverend said. “Do you have anything to add?”

George watched all of this with skepticism. People were rarely what they seemed. Reverend Titus Willard was not the fair and just man he claimed to be. And Mayor Fred Bolton was not the honorable, justice-seeking man he claimed to be. One was a charlatan, the other a coward.

“The mayor’s a liar,” George said evenly.

Bolton’s face flushed. He opened his mouth to speak, remembered the Reverend’s warning, and managed to stay silent.

The Reverend nodded to himself and studied the floor, as if he were giving great thought to the stories he’d been told. But George was familiar with the pretentious displays of men who had already made up their minds. This was not a good omen for Clay.

Finally the Reverend raised his head and asked, “Are you a God-fearing man, Mr. Bolton?”

“I am.”

“I find your account of the events compelling, particularly in light of your position as your town’s mayor. And I can appreciate your dedication in bringing justice to the situation. I find it equally disturbing to imagine an innocent man fleeing under such circumstances. Very disturbing, I might add.”

George and Clay exchanged a hesitant glance.

“With this in mind,” the Reverend said, his voice soft, his words carefully selected, “I would like to invite you, Mayor Bolton, to join me and my lovely wife for dinner tonight. I understand the circumstances are not ideal, but there are several matters I would very much like to discuss with you.”

Bolton let out a heavy sigh and stood tall again. “I would be honored.”

“Excellent.” The Reverend turned to his wife, a warm smile brightening his face. “We will be having a guest for dinner.”

“Yes, Reverend,” Marilyn said quietly.

“Perhaps you should begin preparations for the meal.”

“Of course.”

Marilyn nodded and, with her head down, quickly left.

“As for you two,” the Reverend said, addressing Clay and George, “I would suggest you make sure your souls are right with the Lord.”

The Reverend turned his back to them as if closing the past, and raised his hands to Bolton, who was now apparently the future.

“Mayor Bolton, I do apologize for the most unpleasant manner in which our paths have crossed. We have both lost good men today. However, I am hopeful that our meeting will prove to be in both our best interests as well as the good graces of God. Now, shall we?”

11.

Fred Bolton may have been a coward, but he was no fool. Despite not being a well-educated man, he understood the dark depths of the human soul. He understood the way the mind worked. And he understood fear. And when you combined all three of those things, well, the result became either hideous or glorious, depending on your point of view.

The thing was, though, Bolton wasn’t able to peg which one of these the Reverend Titus Willard fit into. The man certainly sounded sincere as he told Bolton the story about how “the trouble” began. Even his eyes held a certain level of sanity when he spoke of the “Devil’s minions” that must surely not be real. And yet ... Bolton wasn’t sure what to think. Clearly the man—and his young wife and the rest of the people in this town, at least those he had seen so far—believed all of this to be true. And so Fred Bolton, being a coward but no fool, did the only thing he could do to make sure he was still breathing by sundown.

“I believe you,” he said, sitting at the end of the table in the Reverend’s dining room, the Reverend at the other end, the Reverend’s young wife between them.

Reverend Titus Willard cocked his head slightly. “Is that so?”

“I’ve read my Bible more than once. I believe as much in God as I do the Devil. And if there’s a Devil, there are most certainly demons. I do, however, have some questions.”

“Go right ahead.”

Bolton glanced down at his plate in front of him. He’d hardly touched the food on it, despite the emptiness in his stomach. He had been hungry all day but he just couldn’t force himself to eat, not after hearing the Reverend’s story.

And, of course, his encounter with Clay Miller and George Hitchens still haunted him. They were the last two he had expected to see when he went through that jailhouse door. But once he saw them, he quickly realized he could use them to his advantage. That was why he had begun to tremble like he did. He had been scared, yes, but he wanted the Reverend to see his sadness.

Because sadness brought sympathy.

And sympathy, if he was lucky, brought mercy.

“Mayor Bolton, please ask your questions.”

Bolton cleared his throat. “The first question I have is ... why not just leave? Why not just leave at the very start?”

The Reverend smiled as if he had been expecting this question all along. He told Bolton how God had revealed to the Reverend that leaving was not an option, and how half the town didn’t listen, and because of their lack of faith they had died.

“However,” the Reverend said, “we have been testing the borders, so to speak. That is why I have men out roaming during the day.”

“The demons?”

“Of course. Apparently they are not strictly nocturnal. At least, none of us have seen them during the day, but when those in town tried to flee ... all that was left of them were shreds of skin.”

The Reverend’s young wife hadn’t spoken once this entire time. She’d been sitting quietly in her seat, letting her husband speak uninterrupted, but now she shivered quite visibly.

“As you can see,” the Reverend said, motioning to his wife, “it has left many of those in town still shaken just thinking about what happened.”

“So you’re trapped,” Bolton said.

“Yes.”

“And you”—Bolton cleared his throat again—“you make sacrifices every night?”

“Don’t think it does not pain me to have to go to this length. But just as in the Old Testament, sacrifice is required to keep the rest of the town safe.”

“But ...”

“Go ahead,” the Reverend said. “Say what you will.”

“But what happens when there’s no one left? The children ... the children were your town’s future, and now they’re gone.”

“They are gone because they were the purest of all. Their bodies may no longer reside on this earth, but their souls are in Heaven.”

“But how can you be so sure? If these are demons taking them, then how—”

The Reverend brought his fist down on the table so suddenly his wife jumped and cried out. His glare burned into Bolton for a moment too long, and then it subsided.

“Pardon me,” he said. “Sometimes I just ... it becomes too much of a burden on my shoulders. Yes, I understand what you are asking, but ... I am afraid what is done is done. This, I feel, is God’s will, and as leader of this town I need to follow it even if I do not agree with it.”

“And the women?”

The Reverend shook his head just once.

“But your wife—”

“Is my wife,” the Reverend said harshly, that glare once again returning.

“Of course, of course,” Bolton said, suddenly realizing he was overstepping his boundaries. “I mean no disrespect. But it’s just ... what happens when there’s no one left?”

“That will not happen.”

“How do you know?”

“God will not forsake us. He has a plan.” The Reverend said to his wife, “Dear, why don’t you start cleaning up the table?”

She nodded and without a word stood and began to collect the plates. Once she was gone and it was just the two of them, the Reverend’s smile faded.

“Are you scared?”

Bolton swallowed. Staring back at the Reverend, he nodded slowly.

“There is no reason to be scared. You are in my home now. You are my guest.”

There was a long silence.

Bolton asked, “Now what happens?”

“We prepare for sundown. There are extra beds in town and I will make sure you get one.”

“What about ... the demons?”

“There will be a sacrifice. One of your acquaintances, in fact.”

“What happens in two nights? Who”—he swallowed—“who will be the sacrifice then?”

“Do not fret,” the Reverend said. “You will not be the only choice. I have made sure since this began that all the men in town stopped smoking and drinking so their bodies and souls would be as pure as they can be. There will be a lottery. Every man will have his name put in the hat.”

This news didn’t quite relax Bolton. Still, it was better to know he had at least two more days.

Two more days to try to figure things out.

Two more days to try to survive.

The Reverend asked, “Was he telling the truth?”

“Who?”

“The man you claim killed your son.”

Bolton stared back into the Reverend’s eyes, remembering that night a week ago. How he had been called to Clay’s property and how he had seen his boy dead. How he had heard what his boy had tried to do. He wasn’t at all surprised, but that didn’t mean it was right that his son was dead. And so yes, he had decided to act like it had never happened. He had killed Clay’s daughter who was unconscious but still alive with his own hands because his lifelong friend Sheriff Jeremiah Logan refused to do it for him and then placed all the blame on Clay.

After all, Fred Bolton was no fool.

“Absolutely not. That man killed my son. He’s as guilty as the day is long.”

The Reverend said, “Then why don’t we make him tonight’s sacrifice?”

12.

The nights got cold in the desert, and even though the sun was still up George could feel the temperature beginning to cool down as he leaned back on his bunk and supported his spine against the brick wall of the cell.

Clay hadn’t said a word since the Reverend and Bolton left. Not a word. He sat on his own bunk in his own cell, his shoulders slouched forward, his eyes downcast.

George watched the young jailer who had stayed to keep an eye on them. He was lounging on the chair by the door, his boots up on the desk. His hat was tipped low, his eyes closed.

“You think he’ll believe him?” George whispered.

Clay said nothing.

“Bolton’s no fool. He’ll go whatever direction the Reverend leads him.”

Still Clay gave no response.

George went to say something else when the jailhouse door opened and the Reverend’s wife—Marilyn, he reminded himself, her name was Marilyn—slipped through.

“Ma’am?” the jailer asked, startled. He dropped his feet off the desk, quickly stood up. “Can I help you?”

“The Reverend wants you to check the livery.”

“He said that?”

“Yes, and he said you better not question him.”

“What about them?” the jailer asked, hooking a thumb in George and Clay’s direction.

“I’ll keep an eye on them for a few minutes. You best hurry.”

The jailer nodded and hurried through the door. Marilyn waited a few seconds, watching him through the window, before she turned and marched straight to Clay’s cell.

“Were you telling the truth?” Marilyn asked. “About what happened to your daughter?”

Clay nodded distantly.

“That man killed her just to get even?”

“To save his career. The election was coming up. He didn’t want what his son did to sway the voters. So he”—Clay swallowed—“he strangled her to death.”

“How old was she?”

“Sixteen.”

“The mayor’s son?”

“Eighteen, I believe. He was always stopping by the house, but my Ellie didn’t care for him. That night I was reading in the parlor when I heard noises in the backyard. Ellie sometimes lay on a blanket and watched the stars when the sky was clear. She liked watching the stars. She was always hoping to catch one falling. That was where he found her. By the time I went outside, he had torn her dress half off. She was fighting him, and he had his hands around her throat to keep her quiet.”

“His death was really an accident?”

Clay nodded again. “It was never my intention to hurt that boy, even after what he had done to my daughter.”

Marilyn took this in as if it hurt her to hear it. She nodded slightly, her brow furrowed, then turned to George.

“What’s your lot in this?”

“Ma’am?”

“Why risk your life for this man?”

“I was there when it happened. They had me holding Mr. Miller off to the side, Mayor Bolton and Sheriff Logan. I didn’t know what they meant to do until it was already done. They planned to hang the murder on him the next morning. I couldn’t ... I couldn’t let that happen.”

“That can’t be all of it.”

“Pardon?”

“You wouldn’t risk your career—your family—just for a wrongly accused man.”

George went quiet. His eyes shifted away from Marilyn’s face.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I don’t got a family,” George said quietly. “Not anymore. My son ... he was born different than other boys. He wasn’t ... he wasn’t normal. The doctor said he had some kind of retardation and there was nothing we could do about it. Life wasn’t easy raising him. My wife, she ... she got real low most days. She would just sit there and stare into space, or she would sit there and cry. When my boy was old enough to go to school, the schoolteacher wouldn’t take him. She said he was too slow. But Clay”—George’s voice cracked, and he had to clear his throat—“Clay agreed to see my boy every day after school and try to teach him what he could. My boy couldn’t learn much, but at least Clay gave it his best.”

Though there wasn’t much light left in the jailhouse, George could see Marilyn’s eyes brimming with tears. She asked Clay, “You’re a teacher?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m originally from Pennsylvania. When my wife became sick, she wanted to be with her parents, so we headed west. I found a teaching job two counties over at a boy’s school in the city.”

Marilyn turned back to George. “Your wife and boy are gone?”

“In Heaven. At least I’d like to think so. My wife, one day she got so low that she drowned our boy in the creek out behind our house. Then she ... she took her own life.”

A silence fell over the room. Somewhere faraway cicadas began to chirp.

“Ma’am?” George said. “Why are you asking these questions?”

She swallowed hard and wiped the tears from her eyes, stepped back so she could address the two of them.

“They’re going to sacrifice one of you tonight.”

George nodded. “We reckoned.”

“There’s nothing I can do to stop it. But I can give you a fighting chance.”

“What do you mean?”

“Once you’re tied to the post, keep your eyes cast down. No matter what you hear or what you think is about to happen, keep your eyes down.”

“Why are you helping us?” George asked.

Her eyes met his. The fear he had seen there yesterday was gone. Her right hand seemed to unconsciously touch her stomach as she whispered, “Now that he’s dead, she has nobody else to help her.”

“Who?”

Before Marilyn could respond, the jailhouse door opened and the young jailer stepped inside. He gave her a curious look and said, “Ma’am, you probably shouldn’t be that close.”

“I was just praying with these men. Their souls need prayer more than ever.”

The jailer nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I reckon they do.”

She drifted toward the jailhouse door. She nodded at the jailer, started to leave, but paused and glanced back at Clay and George. She whispered, “May God have mercy on your souls,” and left.

*   *   *

It wasn’t much longer that the jailhouse door opened again. Only it wasn’t Marilyn who entered this time, but the Reverend, Fred Bolton, Roy, and two men George had never seen before.

One big happy family as demonstrated by the grin nearly splitting Bolton’s face.

Apparently dinner had gone very well.

“Sir,” the young jailer said, standing to attention. “I checked the livery as you requested.”

The Reverend gave him a slight frown and said, “Sit back down, boy, and be quiet.”

The young jailer did as he was told.

“Gentlemen,” the Reverend said in his smooth booming voice. He stepped to the front of the group, his hands clasping the edges of his brown vest. “As I am sure you are aware, sundown is fast approaching. Which means we have some business that needs settling.”

Both men sat on the benches in their separate cells, but neither of them spoke.

“After much prayer and deliberation,” the Reverend said, “tonight’s sacrifice has been decided.”

The grin on Bolton’s face turned ugly.

The Reverend focused on Clay. “Mr. Miller, I am afraid it will be you.”

George rose to his feet, wrapped his fingers around the bars.

“How exactly was that decided?”

“It was not our decision,” the Reverend said simply. “It was God’s.”

13.

Clay sat on the bench and did not move when Roy opened his cell door, nor did he move when Roy told him to get up. He just sat there, staring down at the floor, thinking about his daughter.

“I said, get up!”

Roy grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet.

For the second time in his life, anger began to slowly stir inside Clay Miller. Like the night he had caught the mayor’s boy having his way with Ellie, anger began to stir and it would not stop until he released it.

Roy must have seen this on his face, because he said, “Don’t even think about it,” and punched him square in the gut.

All the air escaped Clay’s body. He fell to his knees, wheezing, cradling his stomach. He was faintly aware of George calling his name. He was faintly aware of Fred Bolton laughing.

Then Roy grabbed his arm and once again yanked him to his feet.

“Don’t make me do that again.”

Roy pushed him out through the cell door, where the two men had moved forward in front of Bolton and the Reverend. The men took one arm each and began to lead him toward the jailhouse door.

Clay let them take him. He knew there was nothing he could do to stop them.

“Clay!” George shouted.

Clay stopped at the doorway, even pulled back from the men.

The men paused, allowing him the few extra seconds he needed to look back at George standing behind the bars of his cell.

Clay nodded once to his friend.

And then took his first step toward death.

*   *   *

Outside, the sky had begun to darken, fifteen minutes or so away from slipping into blackness.

Clay stepped into the dirt street, each man tightly gripping one of his arms.

The Reverend and Bolton and Roy and the young jailer watched from the plank walkway, at the door to the jailhouse, unwilling to venture any farther into the pending night.

The post was set in the middle of the street, in the middle of town, standing like a monument to the evil that had taken place there. Dried blood trailed down all four sides to where several dark brown pools had formed in the dirt below.

The men said nothing as they backed Clay into the post, tied his hands behind his back, wrapped the excess rope around his waist, and used a clove hitch to secure him.

“This isn’t God’s will,” he said.

One of the men took a kerchief—perhaps the same one used from yesterday—and put it in Clay’s mouth, tied it around his head so he couldn’t speak.

Without a word both men turned and hurried away.

Clay watched them retreat back down the street before they disappeared into the black veil of distant shadows.

His first instinct was to test the bindings. He could barely move. The men had been doing this for weeks now, having tied most of the townspeople and anyone else who happened to come along to this post, and they had become experienced at it.

Still, he tried again to pull himself free of the rope.

Again, he was barely able to move.

And then Clay remembered what Marilyn had said.

Once you’re tied to the post, keep your eyes cast down.

It was getting almost too dark to see the ground right in front of him, and certainly too dark to clearly make out anything in the dirt. So why did she want him to keep his eyes down? Was it something to do with the demons? Something about looking into their eyes?

No—she said it would give him a fighting chance.

Marilyn wanted him to find something.

Clay dragged the heel of his boot across the surface of the dirt in front of him. It left a smooth track. No hiccups, no surprises, just dirt. When he dragged his heel against the grain he had created, the result was the same.

He tried the dirt closer to the post.

This time his boot stopped against something solid.

Something buried in the dirt.

Clay raised his leg and dragged his boot heel over it again, coming up against the same stop.

Excitement overtaking him, he tugged once more against the rope wrapped around his waist. But that only made things worse. The more he tugged, the more the rope seemed to restrict his movement.

And then he heard it, faint and distant ... shuffling.

Clay looked up into the darkness. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they were there, just as they had been there last night.

Demons.

They were coming.

The thought pushed him into a panic. He tried fighting against the restraints again, realized it was a losing battle, and was finally able to get his feet out far enough in front of him so that the weight of his body slid him down the post. From there, Clay rotated around the base until his fingers found the tip of the object buried in the dirt.

Shuffling.

Clay glanced up. The beat of his heart felt as if it might tear a hole in his chest.

In the distance, he saw movement.

Dark shadows in the night, moving awkwardly and off balance.

His fingers dug into the dirt. Brushing away anything and everything that was loose. Finally they hit on a solid object. Not a rock—he could tell that right off. A stick, perhaps.

Clay picked at the loose dirt around the edges, uncovering a little piece at a time. It wasn’t a stick. It was too well formed for that. And it felt as if a design had been carved into the side.

The sound of movement was louder now, closer.

The flesh on his bones rattled with the vibrations.

A quick glance up and he realized the darkness had expanded. It seemed as if there were an army of shadows hovering at the edges of the darkest corners, moving ever closer.

He wrapped his fingers around the object. Tugged on it. The dirt’s grip began to loosen. Not enough to pull it free, but enough to give Clay hope.

His fingers dug deeper around the base of the object ... tugging ... pulling ... until they hit something.

A sharp edge.

Shuffling.

It was a knife.

Clay found the hilt. In the next moment, with what felt like the last of his strength, he gave it a violent yank and the blade slid out of the ground.

Shuffling.

The blade of the knife found the rope linking his hands, and as he began to slice into the first strand, he did the one thing he knew he shouldn’t do just then: he looked up.

An army of black figures that looked more human than demon as they took shape approached.

The knife moved faster over the surface of the rope.

Through the first strand ... onto the second ... onto the third ...

Until—snap!—his hands were suddenly free and the rope around his waist released its death grip, allowing him to let out a breath.

Clay madly unraveled the rope until he was able to climb to his feet and step out of the bindings.

By then, the demons had appeared out of the shadows under the mercantile across the street, and from the plank walkway behind him. They were naked, lumbering forms, human but not human, their moonlight-reflected gazes hollow and unlike anything Clay had ever seen.

With the knife in one hand, tearing the kerchief out of his mouth with the other, he headed away from the godless hordes. Running past several demons that seemed to step out of nowhere. Back down the street in the direction of the jailhouse.

The town was deserted now.

All the buildings were dark and silent.

Clay stopped just before the plank walkway in front of the jailhouse to catch his breath.

Behind him, the demons gathered into a huge, lumbering mass that reminded Clay of a colony of ants organizing to bring its prey home. They weren’t as fast as ants, but they scrambled over one another, fighting for position, stumbling and pushing to get to the forefront.

He turned from the hordes back to the jailhouse just as a demon stepped out of the shadows less than five feet away. When it reached for him, Clay brushed aside its arm and landed a blow to the side of the demon’s head that sent it toppling over.

It was the first time in his life he’d landed a punch—it was a shove that had sent Bolton’s son tripping over his own feet onto that rock—and it hurt like hell.

Clay turned away and tried to shake out the pain.

As he did, he was met by another demon, this one bigger and stronger. It was nearly on top of him, and Clay’s reaction was instinctive and without thought.

He plunged the knife into the demon’s stomach.

The creature had no eyes but its crude mouth opened in a soundless roar as the demon fell backwards, black blood oozing from the wound, the body all at once going rigid as it hit the ground.

That was as much as Clay saw.

The rest of the demons were even closer now, almost on top of him, and he turned and ran.

The moon shined down on him as if he had been chosen, providing all the light he needed to slip past the town’s last building. From there, the moonlight took him through the surrounding desert to the rise of a hill less than a mile away.

When Clay reached the top, he stopped, bent over, and nearly threw up.

His muscles cramped. His lungs ached. His head pounded.

The town was a speck in the distance now, though the darkness appeared to churn with movement.

The demons.

They would be out all night. Most of them had probably given up hunting him, but a few who were determined would still be coming. He’d have to keep moving. At the moment, he was safe, but he’d have to keep moving.

Still breathing heavily, Clay stood up. He looked down at his hands and saw they were empty. Where was the knife? He had a faint memory of stabbing the demon, and then ... had he dropped it back in town?

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was safe. For now.

Feeling some of his strength returning, he turned to run deeper into the desert when a hand reached out from the dark and touched him on the arm.

14.

Reverend Titus Willard was lying in bed, staring at his beautiful sleeping wife, when there was a knock at the door.

Marilyn stirred beside him. She murmured, “What is it?”

“Stay here.”

He slipped out of bed and grabbed his robe and headed out of the bedroom toward the front door where Roy stood on the other side of the glass.

“Yes?” Willard said, opening the door.

Roy nervously bounced from one foot to the other, his face pale and drawn.

“We got trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Can’t quite explain, Reverend. You just need to see for yourself.”

“I’m spending time with my wife,” he said in a voice much louder than was needed, wanting Marilyn to hear how he did not want to leave her. Not that he didn’t love her already, but after last night, her coming to him like she did—like he had always prayed for, coming to him as a wife was supposed to come to her husband—why, it had set every wrong in the world momentarily right.

“I understand, Reverend, and I apologize. But”—Roy swallowed—“you really need to see this.”

“Very well,” Willard sighed. “Let me get my shoes.”

He returned to the bedroom.

Marilyn stirred again, her eyelids fluttering open. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine.” With a warm smile he leaned down and kissed her on the lips. He let the kiss linger more than he had ever done before, and, grace be to God, she let him. “I’ll return shortly.”

“I’ll be here.”

He slipped on his shoes and met Roy at the door. The man still looked nervous. Willard understood the reason why. Before, Joe had been Willard’s right-hand man, the one he counted on for everything. Now with Joe gone, Roy had taken over that position and Roy didn’t want to disappoint.

“Okay,” Willard said, stepping out into the crisp morning, “where is this trouble?”

Roy led him toward the center of town. Before they had even gone fifty yards, Willard said, “I don’t care to see the remains.”

Roy said nothing, just kept walking.

“I said I don’t care to see the remains.”

Roy paused, kept his eyes downcast. “I know, Reverend. That’s what the trouble is.”

They came to the center of town. Two men stood by the post, waiting for them. Willard noted, with a churning in his gut, the dirt stained dark with blood. Almost two month’s worth of blood, so much so it appeared the ground had stopped soaking it up.

Willard had always made it clear he didn’t want to deal with the remains—the scraps of clothing, the bones, the stray body parts—and Joe had understood that just fine. Maybe he would have to rethink keeping Roy as his right-hand man.

Nobody spoke, so Willard looked pointedly at each man and said, “Well?”

Duane, the shortest of the bunch with a ridiculous mustache, held up a length of rope. It was the same rope, presumably, that they used every night. Willard couldn’t really say for sure. Despite overseeing the town during this evil time, he had always kept a fair distance between himself and the sacrifices.

“Reverend?” Roy said questioningly, as if the evidence of the rope should be obvious enough.

“What?”

“Can’t you see?”

Willard sighed, his impatience waning. “Can’t I see what?”

“The rope,” Roy said. “It’s been cut.”

The sky above them was a light and hazy blue that stretched on for miles. A few clouds hung on the horizon. The town itself was quiet except for those men who were slowly waking and doing their assigned chores.

Willard stepped forward. He took the rope from Duane and inspected it. As Roy claimed, it appeared to be cut straight through.

“What are you saying?” Willard asked. When there was no answer, he raised an eyebrow at Roy. “Well?”

“He’s gone.”

Willard lowered the rope to his side. “Would you be so kind as to repeat what you just said?”

“He”—Roy swallowed again—“he’s gone.”

“That’s what I thought you said. But I’m still confused. After last night, he should be gone, correct?”

Roy nodded quickly. “Yes, Reverend. But the demons, they didn’t take him. There was ... nothing here this morning. No remains. That man, he managed ... he managed ... he managed ...”

“Just spit it out already, would you?”

This time taking a large gulp of air, Roy murmured, “He managed to escape.”

Willard didn’t know when it had happened, but he had begun gripping the rope so tightly his nails bit into his palm.

He took a slow, deep breath, held up the rope, and said, “How?”

“Well, Reverend, there’s something else you need to see.”

Roy and the two men led him toward the jailhouse. Here another man stood with his hands in his pockets, looking just as nervous as Roy. On the ground beside him was something Willard had never seen before.

“What ... what is that?”

“Sir?” Roy said, his voice hesitant. “That ... we think that’s one of the demons.”

Willard tilted his head slightly, squinted down at the thing in the dirt. Now that he was looking closely, he could see features that may have been legs and arms, even a head. But the flesh on the creature was not at all what he had expected. It was hard and weathered and ... green?

“It looks like some kind of overlarge plant,” he said.

“Yes, sir. We thought so too. But that’s not all we have to show you.”

“There’s more?”

Roy nodded. He motioned at the man with his hands in his pockets. The man, standing on the other side of the dead creature, lowered his gaze to the ground. Willard did the same, but he couldn’t see anything except the creature.

“What am I looking at?”

“Here,” the man said, taking a hand out of his pocket to point at the ground.

Willard carefully stepped around the creature, expecting it to move at any moment. He let his gaze follow the man’s finger to the ground. A knife lay in the dirt.

“We think he used that to cut his bindings,” Roy said. “We think he must have also used it to stab this ... this thing. He must have dropped it when he was escaping.”

Willard stared down at the knife for several seconds before blinking and looking up at the jailhouse.

“Did he try to free the other one?”

“He may have tried, but the man is still locked up.”

“Have you talked to him yet?”

“No, sir. We wanted to wait to see what you thought.”

“Haven’t you at least searched the town in case he’s hiding?”

“We did that already. We searched every building inside and out and even under. Unless he’s in your home, he’s gone.”

Willard, mindful of the dead creature only inches away, bent and picked up the knife and shook off the loose dirt. He stared down at the design on the handle, at the little scratches on the blade.

“Reverend?”

Willard said, “Get a group together, larger than normal. Use every man that’s available. He couldn’t have gone far. The demons won’t let him.”

“Yes, Reverend,” Roy said, and immediately began directing the other men to get the horses and round up a few more hands.

In the back of his mind Willard thought he had underestimated Roy. That when the time came the man would make a fine right-hand. For now, though, he had other worries that needed dealing with. It was bad enough that a man had escaped the sacrifice last night—and how the demons hadn’t attempted to take more lives was beyond him—but the simple fact remained that the man had had help.

And Willard knew exactly who it was that had helped him.

He recognized the knife, after all.

It had once been his father’s.

part three

THOSE THAT WALK THE NIGHT

15.

Clay’s reaction to the hand on his arm was the reaction of a man who had literally just run a mile to save his life from creatures that shouldn’t exist.

He was breathless, his heart pounding, sweat falling down his face, all his focus on the few demons coming his way, and when the hand touched him in the dark he cried out, spun around, raised his fist to strike whatever was there ... but his feet twisted and he fell back down onto the ground.

“Are you okay?”

The voice—it was quiet, soft, feminine—made Clay pause. He had been expecting ... something else. Certainly not a voice that spoke words in his own language.

“Please”—that quiet voice again—“stand up. We cannot stay here.”

At first all he saw was a dark figure, a silhouette in the night. Then she moved closer, her features becoming a little more pronounced by the moonlight, a small dark face and long black hair.

“Please,” she said again, “we must hurry.”

Before he knew it she was bending down and grabbing his arm and trying to pull him up—and, somehow, succeeding. He knew he wasn’t the lightest man in the world, but this girl (because that’s what she was, he now saw, she was just a girl) lifted him to his feet like he was nothing more than a ragdoll.

“Hurry,” she whispered, pulling him forward.

“Why?”

“They cannot know I am here.”

“Who?” he said, a little too loudly, and she shushed him, pressing three of her fingers to his lips.

“Those That Walk The Night.”

A moment passed and it was like it was just the two of them in the world at that instant, no one else, not the crazy townspeople behind him or the cicadas trilling around them or the creatures that shouldn’t exist coming to kill him.

Clay touched her hand, moved her fingers away from his lips, and whispered, “Who are you?”

She kept her fingers where they were inches from his face, as if debating whether she trusted him to keep his voice low. Then she looked past him and her eyes widened just a bit, and he turned to see that the few creatures that had been following him were now less than one hundred yards away.

“Hurry,” she whispered again.

She grasped his hand and pulled him forward into the night.

*   *   *

How far and how long they ran, Clay did not know. There were clouds in the sky and frequently they shifted in front of the moon, creating even more darkness. It was like he was moving through pitch black, only the girl kept hold of his hand and didn’t let go, pulling him through the dark like he was just a toy. She was strong and fit and could probably run miles without breaking a sweat. He, however, was old and weak and could barely walk a mile without taking a much-needed break. Clay knew that any moment his heart might explode in his chest, so he stopped suddenly and stood still.

The girl did not jerk back like he thought she would. It had not been his intention to try to harm her—he had concluded by this point that she was here to help him, whoever she was—but as a schoolteacher he certainly knew the laws of physics.

When something was moving at such a fast speed and was stopped suddenly by another force, that force would then jerk back. That was just the way things went.

But the girl surprised him.

Her hand never left his, not even when he halted, and while she did stop and tug at him, she never once lost her balance, and she never once fell back.

She tugged once more, paused, and looked at him.

The clouds shifted again, revealing the moonlight, revealing her small dark face.

Clay was amazed that barely a bead of sweat dotted her brow, and that she was not breathless.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“I ... can’t,” he huffed, wriggling his hand from hers and placing both hands on his knees. He slowly breathed in, slowly breathed out, again and again. Blood rang in his ears.

He expected the girl to protest, but she merely said, “I believe they have lost our trail.”

The cicadas continued to trill around them, only there seemed to be less of them now, their song not as powerful.

Clay asked, between breaths, “Who are you?”

The girl stood tall and silent, her eyes closed and her face tilted toward the sky. Clay couldn’t tell what she was doing—thinking, praying, simply being—but then she opened her eyes.

“Yes, I think we are safe for now.”

“How do you know?”

“I can no longer smell them.”

“Smell who?” he asked, and immediately remembered her strange words: Those That Walk The Night.

“They are not natural. They are not of our world anymore.”

“But they ... once were?”

She ignored this. “Where is Joe?”

“Who?” It took him an extra second, and then he remembered the Reverend’s man. “Why do you care where he is?”

“He is a friend.”

Clay shook his head angrily. “He’s with that crazy Reverend, is what he is. He’s a murderer.”

The girl’s face did not change. “Joe is a friend,” she repeated.

Clay spat at the ground, disgusted. “Well, then I’m sorry to tell you,” he said with no remorse in his voice, “but Joe is dead. He was killed this morning.”

For the first time the girl’s face fell. She looked down, looked back up, and said softly, “I worried that might happen. Without him, it will not be much longer.”

Clay’s breathing had gotten under control again. He said, “It’s because of your friend Joe that a boy was killed last night. It’s because of Joe that I was almost killed tonight. And it’s because of Joe”—here Clay’s voice broke—“that my friend George will no doubt be killed tomorrow night.”

The girl was indifferent to this news. She simply shook her head and whispered, “Joe is a friend.” She paused. “Joe was a friend.”

Clay didn’t know how much more of this he could take. The girl just wasn’t making any sense.

He said, truly angry now, “Damn it, girl, who are you?”

Again the clouds shifted, revealing more moonlight, revealing the softness of her eyes and the few tears trailing down her cheeks.

“I am Witashnah,” she whispered. “I am the last woman of the Tachucua tribe.”

“The last woman,” Clay echoed softly. The sight of her tears had drained him of his anger.

“Only Akecheta and I remain. The rest ... they have all vanished.”

“Where”—Clay spoke softly—“where did they go?”

But the girl only shook her head. She motioned him toward her.

“Come. We must not wait here any longer. We must hurry.”

And again, before he knew it, she took his hand in hers and led him deeper into the dark.

16.

It did not take long before Clay became disoriented in the night.

Behind them, the town faded into the shadows of the desert and the surrounding hills and disappeared altogether. In front of them, the terrain gradually grew steeper as they journeyed through a series of small canyon trails that took them to higher ground.

Eventually, as they rounded yet another bend, their surroundings opened and Clay was able to look down on the desert again. Far off in the distance, he could see the dark outline of what he thought was the town. It was little more than a few black, block-shaped patches in the night, but it stood out from the rest of the terrain like an anvil in coal dust.

They continued onward, through patches of manzanita and mesquite and scrub oak. Near an outcropping halfway up the mountain, surrounded by thick underbrush, was an opening in the earth.

“This way,” Witashnah said, leading him into the opening, which was three or four feet wide and five feet high, causing them to duck. “We will be safe here.”

The tunnel gradually expanded as they moved deeper into the mountainside. Two minutes later Clay found himself standing at the mouth of a large chamber, illuminated by a fire in the middle.

An old Indian man sat alone on a block of granite at the edge of the fire.

He looked up at them, his eyes clouded and unseeing. He cocked his head slightly to one side.

Witashnah spoke quickly and softly in what Clay guessed was her native tongue. She crossed the chamber and stood next to the old man, one hand on his shoulder.

“This is Akecheta.”

Clay approached the fire. “Hello,” he said, then immediately felt simple, because he remembered the old man couldn’t understand him.

But Akecheta slowly nodded. In the firelight, the face of the old Indian was marked with the deep lines of time. One end of a wool blanket was wrapped around his waist, the other end hanging over one shoulder.

“Akecheta was an elder of our tribe. We are all that are left.”

“What happened?”

“Those That Walk The Night came and took them all.”

“What are those things?”

A small breeze blew in from the mouth of the cave and Clay felt a chill ride up his spine. He moved closer to the warmth of the fire.

“Evil,” Witashnah said. Her voice was strong, yet gentle. And in the firelight her features reflected that voice. Her face was thin, her cheekbones high and prominent and dignified. Black hair framed her face, turning to braids that fell below the line of her breasts. The braids were tied at the end with strips of leather. Her earrings were made of three rows of bones and feathers, held together by more leather. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old.

Clay could sense she wasn’t going to tell him any more about the creatures—at least not on her own—so instead he asked about Joe.

Her face fell again. “What about him?”

“You said he was a friend.”

A slow and sad nod. “He was.”

Clay shook his head, anger rising because he felt they were about to start talking in circles again. “But he wasn’t. He was one of the Reverend’s men.”

“Joe left us food. Every day by a certain tree, he would toss it in the bushes for me to find. He did not leave much, but it was enough to satisfy our stomachs and made it so we would not have to rely on game. As it is, there is not much game around here anymore.”

“Why would Joe do that?”

“Because he and Marilyn understand how Akecheta must be protected.” She paused, catching her use of tense, and whispered, “Joe did understand.”

“Marilyn? The Reverend’s wife?”

Clay didn’t know why this should surprise him. After all, the Reverend’s wife had helped him escape.

“They were lovers,” Witashnah said. “Joe and Marilyn. Their love was secret. She is right now with his child.”

“Okay,” Clay said after a long moment, trying to wrap his mind around all of this. “But if Joe was a friend, then why would he lock me and my friend up? Why would he allow that poor boy to die?”

Witashnah had a beautiful face—nearly as beautiful as his own daughter’s had been—but now fear clouded it. She shook her head slowly.

“Akecheta must be protected from Those That Walk The Night.”

“Why?”

“Those That Walk The Night are searching for him.”

Clay closed his eyes, placed a hand to the bridge of his nose. His head was beginning to hurt.

He walked back a few paces to the cave wall and leaned back against it and lowered himself into a sitting position. He stared across the dancing flames at the old man who seemed to stare back at him.

“Doesn’t he ever talk?”

“Not since he called forth the god. After that, he cut out his tongue so he would never speak again.”

A flurry of sparks exploded from a pitch pocket in the fire.

The old man gave no reaction.

Clay watched him, thinking about George alone back in town, the Reverend’s next victim, and how Clay needed to do whatever it took to save him. He even wanted to tell Witashnah this, how he needed to return, but before he could Akecheta grunted softly. He turned his head toward Witashnah, extended his hand, and motioned her to come closer to him.

Witashnah leaned forward and placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder.

The old man took her hand, squeezed it two times. Witashnah seemed to know what this meant, for she began to help the old man to his feet. It took nearly a minute, the old man’s bones no doubt very frail, and then once he was standing he slowly began to shuffle toward Clay.

Clay rose to his feet, watching as Witashnah led the old man around the fire.

“What’s happening?”

Witashnah didn’t answer and continued to help the old man as he walked forward, step after unsteady step, until they reached Clay. Then he let go of the girl’s hand and reached out toward Clay, his hands searching for Clay’s face.

Clay’s first reaction was to step back, move out of the way, but his back was up against the cave wall, and besides he didn’t think the old man intended him any harm. So he stood still as the old man’s hard and dirty fingers touched his face, moving around his cheeks and nose and chin and forehead.

The old man gave another soft grunt, and lowered his head as he kept his hands on Clay’s face.

“What—” Clay started to say, but all at once there was a flash and the world was gone.

17.

One second, maybe two, and then it was over.

Clay’s eyes snapped open and he pushed the old man away. It was a slight, jerky push, just putting some distance between himself and Akecheta, and thankfully the old man did not fall back into the dancing flames. Instead he stood there for another moment, staring at Clay with his milk-hued eyes, before he turned away and reached out his hand. Witashnah took it and helped him back to his place beside the fire.

Clay realized he was breathing heavily. He was sweating, too, as if the temperature had suddenly risen forty degrees. In his ears he could hear his heart thumping rapidly, and he leaned back against the cave wall, worried that he might be dying.

After several minutes when he realized he was okay—when his breathing slowed, when the temperature dropped back down and the pounding in his ears subsided—he looked at Witashnah and said, “You’re his granddaughter.”

Witashnah said nothing.

“And they—they killed her. That’s what this is all about. They raped and killed your mother, and that’s why your grandfather called forth the god.”

Still Witashnah said nothing.

“I saw it,” Clay whispered. “I saw everything—his entire life. I saw his childhood and I saw ... everything.”

Another flurry of sparks exploded from the fire, causing Clay to start. He was still on edge, despite his now normal breathing and heartbeat. He couldn’t get over the simple revelation that, for just a second or two, the old man had managed to transfer all of his memories into Clay. Everything the old man had experienced—everything—Clay now knew.

“There’s no way to stop it—the god. But you knew that already.”

The girl didn’t look like she was ready to speak quite yet, but slowly she nodded and whispered, “I began to suspect.”

Witashnah, Clay knew, had spent much of her life around the white settlers. This was why her English was so good. Her grandfather had never approved of this, fearing the settlers would eventually take over their land. He had met many kind white men over the years as they passed through on their way to California, but he had also met a fair share of devious men who wanted nothing more than to cheat Akecheta and his people out of everything they owned.

And this had indeed happened only a few months ago. A group of white men had come to trade but had instead stolen. Not only that, two of them had had their way with Akecheta’s daughter, Witashnah’s mother. (She had been defenseless because her husband had died the previous year of small pox.) They had beaten her so badly she could barely see out of both of her eyes. Akecheta had been filled with a rage he did not know existed, and demanded the warriors of his tribe hunt down these men and kill them. The warriors started out the next day in search of the evil white men. They never returned. Word did not come back until two weeks later that they had been killed, each and every one of them. And so Akecheta began to pray. He prayed first to one god, then to another, awaiting a reply. None came.

By that point Akecheta had not eaten in days. He believed his grief was so great that his body did not deserve any food, not until things were made right. Things, however, became even worse when his daughter, who had faced shame and depression ever since her violation, ended her life. When Akecheta learned this, his knees collapsed and he fell to the ground, releasing a scream that some said could be heard for miles.

Finally he journeyed many moons to another tribe to speak to their eldest holy man. Akecheta explained the terrible things that had happened and how he wanted vengeance. He told the holy man how he had prayed to the gods but received no answer. The holy man told Akecheta that there was still one more god he had yet to try, a long forgotten god who only came out at night. This god was a trickster with no name, but a god who just may do Akecheta’s bidding ... for a price.

What was that price?

“He gave up his eyesight,” Clay whispered, staring at the old man sitting by the fire. Then he shifted his gaze to Witashnah. “And you knew the reason why.”

After the ritual that night there was no immediate proof that the god had been called forth. But Akecheta’s eyesight was suddenly gone. The tribe’s holy man had one of the young men help take Akecheta back to his own tribe, where his granddaughter met him, worried because he hadn’t told anyone where he had gone. She led him to his bed and gave him water and asked him what had happened to his sight, but Akecheta would not answer. He did not want to speak of the god in case that would somehow cause the god to go away.

“He told me after several days,” Witashnah said. “By then we were not aware of Those That Walk The Night. They had not yet reached our tribe. But they were out there, killing all of the white settlers. When Akecheta told me what he had done, I did not believe it at first. But when word came about how the white men and women were all killed by creatures that came in the night, I knew it was true. That was when Those That Walk The Night began coming for the rest of us.”

Those That Walk The Night—the nameless god’s minions—began to come for the other tribes around the area. There was no stopping them. Everyone was panicked. It wasn’t until a few more days passed that the young man who had brought Akecheta back to the tribe showed up again, this time with the old holy man. The holy man requested to speak with Akecheta alone. And so it was alone, just he and the holy man, that Akecheta understood the god’s nature.

“It deceived them,” Clay said. “The holy man did not know what the god would do. He believed it would take vengeance on those white men and then return to the spirit world. But the god ... it wants to stay in this world. And it needs your grandfather to do that. That’s why you’ve been hiding in this cave.”

“We have hidden other places. Occasionally we will move. From what I can guess, the god has limitations. It cannot know everything at once.”

“No, it can’t. At least not yet. Not until ...” Something occurred to him. “Marilyn knows the truth, doesn’t she? That’s why she and Joe”—he shook his head, still trying to accept the fact Joe had not been a bad person—“that’s why they were helping you. What all does she know?”

“Almost everything. I have known Marilyn for many years. We are close. She did not believe me at first. But then when Those That Walk The Night came ...”

“According to the holy man, the god wants your grandfather to walk the sky.”

Witashnah frowned. “What does that mean?”

“The god’s time on earth is limited. It cannot exist for long by itself. It must possess a human form. But a human’s body cannot last very long with the god inside it, especially in sunlight, so it must keep transferring to different bodies. Unless it transfers to the body of the one who called it forth.”

“And then,” Witashnah said hesitantly, “Akecheta will walk the sky?”

“His spirit will. It will be torn from his body and forever trapped between our world and the spirit world. And if that happens, the god will become even more powerful. Sunlight won’t stop it. Nothing will stop it.”

Witashnah’s face was a mixture of worry and fear. She looked once again at her grandfather. After the holy man had told Akecheta about the god, Akecheta had taken a knife and cut out his tongue. He had nearly choked to death on his own blood. So until now, Clay knew, Witashnah had only suspected bits and pieces of the truth. She knew about the god and she knew about Those That Walk The Night and she knew the god was searching for her grandfather. But she did not know the magnitude of what would occur if the god ever found him.

“What,” Witashnah said, her voice even more hesitant, “does the god plan to do?”

“You mean that isn’t obvious by now?” Clay shook his head slowly, his gaze fixed on Akecheta. “It intends to destroy us all.”

18.

The fire flared again. Another flurry of sparks danced against the high smoke-stained ceiling of the cave.

Clay sat down on a nearby rock and stared into the red-hot embers. A thick silence fell over them. Clay had a better understanding of what was going on now, and the world was suddenly a much darker place. He played the entire story over in his head, not once but several times, and at one point noticed Witashnah staring curiously at her grandfather.

“He can’t.”

His voice broke the heavy silence. It was enough to startle the girl.

She asked, “He cannot what?”

“Take his own life. Not like ... not like your mother did. Our souls—our spirits—are protected by our bodies. This is why the god cannot find Akecheta. But if he were to take his own life, there would be a moment or two—or even longer—when your grandfather’s spirit would be between this world and the spirit world. The god would sense him at once, and still take over. It wouldn’t work.”

Witashnah said nothing to this. She returned her gaze to the fire. Clay couldn’t be completely certain that was what she had been thinking about, but it was a safe bet. After all, he knew Akecheta had considered the same thing once, before realizing it wasn’t an option.

The silence continued, and Clay found his thoughts leading him back to something much more immediate.

“Do you have any weapons?”

“A knife,” Witashnah said. “Why?”

“My friend is still in the Reverend’s jail. If he hasn’t taken my place in tonight’s sacrifice, he’ll be sacrificed tomorrow night. I can’t let that happen.”

“What brought you and your friend out here?”

He wondered how much detail to go into and if he should tell her the circumstances of their travel together. He decided that it wasn’t important. Instead, Clay told her about coming across the boy in the desert and how the three of them had arrived in the first town and encountered the Reverend’s men.

“I know this town,” Witashnah said.

Clay had gone back to staring into the dancing flames. His thoughts had shifted slightly, from first entering the town to something he had almost forgotten—Goodman’s Mercantile. At the back, there was a section of guns and ammunition and a crate of dynamite. George had warned him about the dynamite, said it was unpredictable, but between the guns and the dynamite, that should give them plenty of fire power.

“The town is watched by the Reverend’s men,” Witashnah said. “It brings drifters like you and your friend that can be used for sacrifice.”

“Are his men always there?”

“From morning to late-afternoon, but never later than two hours before sunset.”

Clay nodded, trying to decide when it would be best to slip back into the town for the weapons.

“I will take you,” Witashnah said. “Before sunrise.”

Clay wondered if she had been reading his thoughts.

“Why so early?”

“There is something I want you to see.”

*   *   *

Exhaustion overtook him. Clay closed his eyes and drifted into a sleep so bottomless it felt as if he might never find his way to the surface again.

When he opened his eyes, Witashnah was standing over him.

“We leave now.”

Outside the cave, the black of night was just beginning to surrender to the dark blues of morning. The moon sat high overhead, painting the top of the scrub brush and tree tops with a thin line of gray-white light.

“This way,” Witashnah said as she crossed a small opening of red rocks and disappeared around a corner.

Clay followed her down a trail that wound back and forth through a series of gullies that seemed oddly familiar. This was the same trail they had followed last night, only in reverse, he guessed, and that was why it felt so familiar.

But it wasn’t the same trail.

Clay had never been on this trail before.

Yet the landmarks seemed so familiar. An outcropping with a single slender lip fern growing out of the rock. A cactus that resembled a man. A stairway cut out of the red rock. A field of blue grama.

“When I was a little girl, my grandfather took me along this path to the edge of the town not long after it was settled. We sat out of sight and watched the white man with his families and his bartering, and my grandfather told me I should never trust a white man.”

“He was trying to protect you.”

“I know.”

“We aren’t all evil.”

Witashnah smiled. “I know this too.”

Suddenly it dawned on him why the trail and surroundings seemed so familiar. Akecheta had walked these landmarks many times, and because they were familiar to him, they were now familiar to Clay.

He knew everything the old Indian knew.

Everything.

Except ... except there was a blind spot in these memories he shared with Akecheta.

It wasn’t one of those fuzzy memories that just needed a little time before it would eventually take form and become clear to him. It was as if he had sneezed and something important had escaped his notice. Or more likely, it was as if Akecheta had purposely blocked that particular memory so Clay wouldn’t have access to it.

“This way,” Witashnah said.

*   *   *

They arrived at an open field, the town still nowhere in sight, as dark blues wiped the last of the black from the night. It was still dark out, but beneath the blues, painted in a thin, hazy line across the horizon, the first hint of orange and red pushed up out of the distance.

Witashnah stopped. “We wait.”

She went to her knees, and from her knees dropped to the ground on her belly, and slowly surveyed their surroundings.

Clay dropped to the ground next to her.

“Why are we stopping?”

“Be patient.”

The desert was wrapped in an eerie silence, almost as if all its creatures had paused to watch the pending sunrise. But it wasn’t long before Clay realized it wasn’t the sunrise that had quieted the desert. It was the movement of the creatures.

He heard the shuffling sound first, off in the distance, gradually approaching from the west.

Clay raised his head, peering over the surrounding desert plants into the dark of morning.

Nothing.

There was that sound, though. That weight dragged across the sand and echoed a hundred times over until it was almost a hissing.

Growing louder.

Stirring up wind.

Until Clay saw the dark shadows stepping out of the nothingness, one after another, lumbering in their direction.

“They’re going to stumble over us.”

“Quiet.”

And no sooner did the word pass Witashnah’s lips than the horde of dark shadows suddenly ground to a halt. In unison, every single lumbering creature stopped in place, as if time had hit a wall.

The morning desert air fell into complete silence.

A sandy cloud of dust settled back to the earth around the creatures just as the tip of the sun peeked over the distant horizon.

Nothing stirred.

Clay couldn’t take his eyes off the nearest demon—was that what they really were, an army of demons?—even as his heart slammed against the inside of his chest and he found it impossible to breathe.

The human-like creature appeared to teeter in place for a moment, like a spun coin at the end of its last turn.

Then, quite suddenly, the creature—or demon or whatever the hell it was—writhed and shed its night skin, which fell to the ground and vanished in a thin cloud of black soot.

Left standing in its wake was ...

A cactus.

Clay glanced at Witashnah and realized she had seen this all before. He pushed up from the ground and sat in the sand. Scanning the landscape that had been wide-open desert terrain a few short minutes ago and was now populated with a scattering of full-grown cacti as far as the eye could see.

*   *   *

“Why not destroy them while they’re like this?” Clay asked as they quietly neared the cacti.

Witashnah shook her head. “They are not as harmless as they appear.”

“I stabbed one of them last night. It stopped and bled, so obviously they’re not immortal. Why not just burn them now?”

Witashnah did not answer. She bent as she walked, picked up a long stick, and continued on, Clay keeping pace beside her.

The distance between them and the cacti quickly vanished. Soon they were only feet away. Witashnah extended the stick toward one of the cacti, the tip almost touching its weathered pale green skin ... until suddenly the cactus began to move.

Just as Clay had watched the demons transform into these cacti, he now watched as this cactus transformed back into a demon. Not completely, though. Just the top half of it, the faceless head forming, its mouth opening, the arms growing out of the cactus on each side, and with one of those arms the half-demon tried to swat at the stick before Witashnah pulled it away and quickly took a step back.

The half-demon seemed to stare at them with its eyeless gaze for several long seconds, before, quite suddenly, the arms disappeared and then the mouth and then head and it was just the cactus again.

Witashnah said, “They rest during the day. But they are not wholly gone. The sun causes them to slow down, but it does not stop them. I have tried what you suggested. I destroyed many of them, but it was not enough. Their number is simply too great. Not just here, but all over this land. Many of our tribes are gone, as are the white settlers. The god has turned those that were not outright killed into ... these.”

“You mean they were human once?”

“Yes.”

“There’s nothing we can do for them anymore, is there?”

“No.”

“Why can’t we just leave?”

“The god will not allow it. Those in town tried. Others did as well. The demons came back to life and killed them all.”

“So we’re trapped.”

Witashnah nodded. “The god allowed you and your friend to come here, just as it allowed the others headed to California to come here. But it will not let you escape. Not with your life.”

They continued on, skirting the edge of the cacti.

Another hour passed before they finally reached the town Clay and George had stumbled across after finding the boy in the desert. The sun was above the horizon now, though it was still low in the sky, leaving long western shadows.

“We must hurry,” Witashnah said. “The Reverend’s men will come soon.”

“Let’s check the mercantile first.”

Clay wasn’t sure if the dynamite would be useable or not, but at least there would be guns and ammo in Goodman’s.

“You go,” Witashnah said. “I will check the jailhouse.”

“Fine, then. Meet me at the mercantile when you’re done.”

While Witashnah started across the street, Clay headed to the plank walkway fronting the town’s businesses and followed it down to Goodman’s Mercantile.

Inside, the floor was strewn with penny candy.

This gave him pause, but he shook it off and moved down the nearest aisle to the back of the store, where he found the crate of dynamite right where he remembered it.

Clay knelt for a closer look. The schoolteacher in him didn’t know much about dynamite, but the Akecheta in him knew that if the dynamite was sweating it was probably unstable and dangerous. So that was the first thing he looked for, and he was pleased to discover the sticks were dry.

Behind him, a floorboard creaked.

“That was fast,” he said, smiling as he continued to inspect the dynamite. “I think this is just what we need.”

Silence.

“Witashnah?”

But before he could turn around, the barrel of a gun kissed the back of his head.

19.

“Don’t move.” The voice was young and nervous. “I don’t want to shoot you.”

Clay said, “I don’t want you to shoot me.”

The barrel didn’t move from its place on the back of his head.

“Now you’re gonna stand up real slow like, okay?”

Clay kept his hands held out at his sides. His first thought was Witashnah, what had become of her. Then something strange happened to his mind—a mental fog began to lift—and he found himself asking, “Have you ever killed a man, son?”

“Shut up.”

“Have you ever even fired your gun at someone?”

“I said shut up.”

“I’m going to give you a chance. You and the rest of your friends can leave this town now and escape with your lives. If not, well, I certainly hope your soul is right with the Lord.”

“Shut up!” the young man shouted, poking the barrel hard into the back of Clay’s head.

Clay closed his eyes, wondering where all of that had just come from. It certainly wasn’t something he would normally say. Even the feeling—the complete lack of fear—was something new.

“Now stand up,” the young man said. “Slowly.”

Clay rose to his feet, his knees popping with the effort. Once he stood straight, he slowly turned to find that the young man was barely even a man.

“How old are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?”

The young man stepped back and kept his revolver leveled on Clay. He motioned with the barrel for Clay to walk.

Clay walked slowly back down the aisle, headed toward the front of the store. The toe of his right boot struck some of the penny candy, sending them skittering across the floor. The young man waited for him to pass and then kept pace behind, keeping the barrel of the gun pressed against Clay’s lower back. Clay had to hand it to the kid. No matter his age, it was a smart move. If Clay tried anything, it would take less than a second for the young man to pull the trigger and shatter Clay’s spine with the bullet.

Assuming, of course, the gun didn’t misfire.

Assuming, too, the gun was even loaded.

Through the open door Clay could see others in the street. At least two of them. Each held rifles in their hands.

“I got one!” the young man shouted. There was pride in his voice.

Clay considered reminding him what his actions right now meant—how he was essentially murdering Clay—but he knew better than to waste his breath. This young man had been fooled by the Reverend, just like everyone else in that godforsaken town.

Clay spotted Witashnah the moment he stepped outside.

Another man held her at gunpoint. He stood several yards away by two horses. The other two men—older men, gray in their beards—didn’t move from where they stood directly in front of the mercantile.

“Only four of you?” Clay asked, stepping down off the plank walkway into the dirt. “Are you sure that’s enough?”

“Shut up.” The barrel nudged him in the back. “The Reverend’s none too happy with you.”

“The demons didn’t get me last night. Did they get anyone else?”

The young man hesitated. “No.”

“But doesn’t that go against everything the good Reverend has taught you?”

“Don’t listen to him, Jerry,” said one of the men with the rifles. “He knows he’s a dead man.”

“Gentlemen,” Clay said. “I’ll give you the same chance I gave Jerry back inside. Leave me and my companion alone, and I’ll let you live.”

Again, Clay couldn’t believe he spoke the words as they left his mouth. The two men couldn’t seem to believe the words either. They smiled at each other and guffawed.

“Stupid old man,” Jerry said behind him, and the barrel disappeared just long enough for Jerry’s foot to replace it.

The heel hit Clay right in the back and sent him stumbling forward, sprawling in the dirt.

Clay landed on his face, his hands splayed out at his sides. He groaned and slowly inched his knees forward so his buttock was raised in the air.

“Jerry? That was a very unwise thing to do.”

“If you don’t shut your mouth, old man,” Jerry said, stepping close and leaning down so the gun’s barrel was right by Clay’s head, “then I’m going to shut it for you.”

That, Clay thought, closing his eyes, was an unwise thing to do as well.

And suddenly he jerked himself up, grabbing the revolver out of Jerry’s hand, twisting hard enough to snap Jerry’s trigger finger.

As the young man screamed, Clay took possession of the gun and fired at the two older men with the rifles, one shot each, both in the face.

He was on his feet a second later just as Jerry tried to kick out at him.

Clay grabbed the young man’s foot in mid-air and twisted, sending Jerry sprawling to the dirt.

He stepped past Jerry, shooting him in the chest, and raised the gun at the man who had been holding onto Witashnah.

This man raised his weapon to fire at Clay but Witashnah hit him at the last second, sending the man’s shot wide, and Clay aimed and fired and struck the man in the shoulder.

But the man didn’t go down.

He raised the gun again.

Witashnah tried to hit him again.

He smacked her with the gun on the side of the head, sending her to the ground, then aimed once more at Clay who was advancing, taking close aim, squeezing off a shot—bang!—and the bullet tore into the man’s arm, sending his weapon flying.

The man, panicked, turned and grabbed hold of one of the horses, swung himself up onto it and kicked it hard, the horse whinnying and then galloping away.

Clay tossed the revolver aside and hurried over to the two older men. He picked up one of their rifles, checked the chamber, and then brought the stock to his shoulder.

He lined his eye up with the sight and watched as the last of the Reverend’s men hurried away.

He let in a breath, let out a breath, keeping his eye on the target, watching the man growing smaller and smaller.

In his mind Clay calculated the distance and the slight amount of wind and the final trajectory of the bullet, and at the last moment he raised the rifle just slightly and squeezed the trigger.

The rifle kicked in his hands.

The shot rang out in the silence.

For a long moment nothing happened—just the man riding off on the horse—and then suddenly the man jerked and went rigid and fell off to the side, his foot catching in the stirrup and dragging him along dead as the horse continued onward out of town.

Clay stood frozen for an instant, his entire body shaking. It wasn’t until that instant passed that he realized just how much pain he was in. Muscles he hadn’t used in quite some time screamed out their agony.

He tossed the rifle aside and hurried over to where Witashnah was slowly picking herself up off the ground.

“Are you all right?”

Her face was bruised, blood streaking her cheek.

“I am fine. How ... how did you do that?”

Clay shook his head. “It wasn’t all me. It was ... your grandfather.”

She just stared back at him.

“He was a warrior, wasn’t he? When he was younger. He killed many men in battle.”

Witashnah nodded slightly. “I have heard stories.”

Clay looked back at the three dead bodies in the street.

“Others might be coming.”

“That horse may return to town as well.”

Clay motioned at the mercantile.

“Then we best hurry.”

20.

The sun had gone past the midday mark by the time Clay and Witashnah returned to the cave. They were both exhausted. Clay was still hurting from the shootout, and the bruise on Witashnah’s face had darkened. But it was the weight of saving George and dealing with Those That Walk The Night that had Clay feeling overwhelmed.

They stored the cache of guns and ammunition taken from the Reverend’s men, as well as the eight sticks of dynamite Clay had found in the crate at Goodman’s Mercantile, just inside the chamber.

Akecheta was hunched near the fire, his head bowed in sleep.

Clay sat across from the old Indian and watched as Witashnah checked on her grandfather.

“Is he okay?”

She nodded.

Before they had left town, they had moved the bodies of the Reverend’s men to a back bedroom of the Red Queen Saloon. Then they unsaddled the horses and set them free. They hoped it would buy them some additional time. If the Reverend came looking, it would be a while before he stumbled across the bodies. Apparently, the ploy had worked. There had been no sign of the Reverend or any of his men on their long journey back to the cave.

“Hungry?” Witashnah asked. She extended him a strip of smoke-dried meat. “I found some under the counter at the saloon.”

It wasn’t much, but it would be enough to tide him over.

“Thank you.”

He tore a bite out of the dried meat and found his thoughts drifting back to what had happened in town. He had killed intentionally. It hadn’t been an accident like it was with Mayor Bolton’s son. This time it had been with clear intent.

The guilt and horror should have brought him to his knees, but Clay felt nothing. He had done what he had needed to do, because if he hadn’t it would have cost Witashnah her life, George his life, and in the end Clay his life as well.

But he hadn’t killed on his own.

He had been guided by Akecheta, who was part of him now.

“You said you heard stories of when your grandfather was a warrior.”

Witashnah nodded. “Many stories.”

“Tell me one.”

Her gaze dropped to the fire and fixed there.

“When he was young, before he took a wife and fathered his first child, my grandfather fought against soldiers who had come to the valley to raid his village.”

Witashnah’s voice sang just above a whisper, soft and hypnotizing.

“It was his first battle, and he told me he could feel fear deep in his bones.”

Clay felt his eyes grow heavy.

“But he knew in his heart it was not about him, but about his people.”

It had been a long day after a night of little sleep, and Clay felt it catching up with him. He leaned against the nearest rock, crossed his arms over his chest, and listened to her words until they carried him off into the dark wilderness of sleep.

*   *   *

When Clay opened his eyes again, Witashnah had moved to a more comfortable position against the wall of the cave and was sound asleep. Akecheta, on the other hand, was awake. He appeared completely absorbed by the fire, as if he were watching the world around him take shape inside the flickering flames.

Clay sat up and studied the old Indian. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. It was difficult to believe he was as frail and unseeing as he appeared to be. Maybe that was because Clay had briefly experienced what it was like to be Akecheta. Or maybe there was more to the old man than he let you see.

Clay moved around the fire. He bent close to Akecheta, stared into his cloudy eyes, and whispered, “What did you do to me?”

Akecheta turned and stared up at Clay without saying a word.

“What are you hiding?”

The dark spot in his mind still troubled Clay. What was it he couldn’t see? And why was it being blocked?

“What are you doing?” Witashnah asked from behind him.

Clay glanced over his shoulder and saw her sit up from the wall, her eyes not fully open as she struggled out of her sleep. She put a hand across a yawn to stifle it.

“Checking on your grandfather. He’s awake again.”

“Is he well?”

“He’s fine,” Clay said. “How soon do you think we should head out?”

*   *   *

Two hours later, with the shadows long and the sun preparing for its descent below the skyline, they stood on the outskirts of the Reverend’s town.

All appeared quiet.

There were no signs of the Reverend, no signs of his men patrolling the streets.

It wouldn’t be long now.

“You understand what to do?” Clay asked.

Witashnah nodded and accepted the dynamite and a rifle from him. She wore one of the belts they took from the Reverend’s men earlier today, a revolver in the holster.

Clay kept a rifle for himself, along with a revolver, and watched Witashnah start off around the outer edges of the town, toward the other side, until she disappeared. Then he checked his weapons to make sure they were loaded and ready to go, and started down the main street.

To the west, the sun began to set.

As he walked, Clay’s blood pounded in his ears. It was the only sound he heard as the surroundings suddenly fell into an eerie silence.

A chill made its way down the back of his neck.

They were coming.

In the distance, out of the silence, came the first soft whisper of the cacti beginning to move.

The demons were stirring.

If he was going to save George, he would have to hurry.

Clay stepped up his pace. He passed by the bank and the assayer’s office, the boardinghouse and the jailhouse, until he was on the plank walkway, keeping to the gathering shadows.

Ahead, the post in the middle of the street came into view.

The vague outline of a figure flailed against the bindings.

Time was growing short.

Clay stepped out of the darkest shadows, into the gray murk, and stopped in his tracks.

It wasn’t George tied to the post.

It was Marilyn.

21.

She wore a long white dress that seemed to radiate a preternatural glow in the faint moonlight. Her hands were behind her back, lashed to the post, and a piece of cloth was in her mouth.

Her eyes met Clay’s and for an instant he was reminded of just how much she looked like Ellie, how the very first time he saw her he actually thought it was his dead daughter somehow brought back to life.

The stirring off in the distance was growing stronger, the demons beginning their forward shuffle.

It took Clay only seconds to reach Marilyn—sprinting soundlessly across the dirt—and only another two seconds before he managed to loosen the cloth around her head and took it from her mouth.

“Who did this to you?” he said, and immediately felt foolish for asking the question.

It was obvious who had done this to her, just as it was obvious the work hadn’t been done by the man alone. But what had been done to this woman—girl, really, Clay thought, maybe a year or two older than Ellie—was more than just being tied to a post to be sacrificed. He hadn’t noticed it at first because of the tears sparkling in her eyes, but there were bruises on her face, dried blood around her nose.

“He found the knife,” Marilyn said, breathless. “He knew I helped you.”

Clay instantly tensed at her words. There was no accusatory tone to them—at least none that he could hear—but what had happened to her was clearly his fault. If he hadn’t left the knife behind, maybe she wouldn’t be tied to this post, clearly beaten by hands that never should have been given the right to touch such soft and delicate skin.

“Please,” she gasped, trying to wiggle free from her bindings, “we have to hurry before they come.”

Clay’s first thought was that she meant the demons. Then he noticed her eyes, how they jerked nervously back and forth, from one side of the street to the other.

He stepped back and looked around at the buildings lining the street.

All the windows were dark.

All was silent, except the growing distant shuffling.

Clay couldn’t see them, but he knew they were there. Watching him, anticipating his next move. He turned his head toward the jailhouse, wondered if George was even in there. And if he was, who else currently joined him in the dark? And how many weapons did they have aimed at the door?

“Please hurry,” Marilyn said. “I have to save my child.”

Clay turned back to her. He withdrew Witashnah’s knife and began cutting the ropes.

“I know. Witashnah told me. She told me everything.”

“Where is she?”

“Close.” He stepped back and glanced once again toward the jailhouse. “Before we go, we need to save my friend. Do you know if he’s—”

He heard the gunshot—a single bang! echoing in the silence—but felt nothing. He stood for a moment, wondering where he had been shot, but knew that the bullet had missed him. He turned back toward Marilyn, started to speak ... but stopped.

She appeared to be choking.

This didn’t make sense to Clay at first until she opened her mouth and blood poured out and then a cloud drifted just right allowing the moon to shine even brighter and he saw the hole in her throat, the dark blood pouring down her body, soaking into her dress, turning the white to black.

She stumbled backward, one hand clawing at her throat, the other holding onto her belly. Clay tried to catch her before she fell but he wasn’t fast enough. She hit the ground hard and then just lay there, gurgling blood, her eyes shifting around again until they focused back into Clay’s, and for an instant it wasn’t Marilyn staring back at him, but Ellie.

“I’m sorry,” Clay whispered, grabbing his daughter’s hand on her belly and holding it tight. “I’m so sorry.”

She blinked and suddenly it wasn’t Ellie anymore, it was Marilyn, and there was nothing in her eyes, no life, and he stood back up, reaching for his gun, turning toward where the shot had come from when there was another echoing bang! and the bullet tore into his shoulder and sent him reeling back to the ground.

part four

WALK THE SKY

22.

Fred Bolton stepped back from the second story window of the saloon, stunned. What had just happened? Roy, who was crouched at the window with his Winchester supported by the sill, had just fired off an errant shot that had hit the Reverend’s wife.

The echo of the shot returned from somewhere faraway and replayed three or four times in Bolton’s mind. The marrow in his bones turned cold. He swallowed hard and looked toward the Reverend, who was standing over Roy.

“Excellent shot,” the Reverend whispered. He gave his right-hand man a pat on the shoulder. “Now the other one.”

“What’s going on?” Bolton asked. “I thought she was the bait.”

Roy pumped the lever, set the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, took aim again.

Bolton’s voice went hoarse. “What did you do?”

A second shot exploded. The room expanded with the sound of the blast.

Bolton stepped back a second time, fought a moment to catch his balance, and then leaned forward to glance over Roy’s shoulder at the street below.

Clay Miller lay sprawled on the ground, his hand still on his gun, which sat halfway out of its holster.

He was motionless.

The Reverend clapped his hands with delight.

“Easier than I feared it would be. Didn’t I tell you the Lord is looking after our good town and its people?”

“You killed your wife,” Bolton said matter-of-factly, his simple tone hiding his shock.

“She may have been my wife, but her heart and soul were lost to the Devil long ago. She deceived me and she betrayed the people of this town. The Lord gaveth and the Lord hath taken away.”

“Reverend?” Roy shifted in his crouch. “He’s getting up.”

“Shoot him in the leg. We will let the demons finish him off.”

Roy wiped the palm of his trigger hand on his pants, pumped the lever again, and lined up for a third shot.

Bolton moved in closer to watch. Clay Miller had killed his son, and Bolton was going to take great delight in seeing him first hobbled by the shot and then devoured by the demons.

Clay dragged his body up from the ground. He wobbled on his knees for a moment, struggling to find the strength and balance to get to his feet.

Roy’s index finger found the trigger, settled comfortably against it.

And then suddenly, across the street, the corner building exploded.

There was a bright flash, followed by a gust of hot air, shattered glass and wood debris.

The Winchester slipped out of Roy’s grip as he fell back into the Reverend, who stumbled back into Bolton.

Bolton caught the Reverend. “What the hell was that?”

All three men moved back to the window and watched in momentary silence as thousands of scraps of wood and wallpaper and shingles floated back to earth.

The display window of what used to be the mercantile was now little more than a jagged opening in the building.

On the walkway, the corner post was severed at the midpoint, the roof slumping forward and down. Inside the building several small fires had broken out, the flames flapping at the dark night like wings in the wind.

The Reverend tapped Roy on the shoulder and pointed to the middle of the street.

“He’s on his feet again.”

Roy fumbled in the shadows for the rifle, found it, and brought it once more to his shoulder. He targeted Clay’s left leg as the man finally stood tall and seemed to regain his balance.

His finger lightly touched the trigger.

Roy took a deep breath, paused, and fired.

Nothing happened.

“Shoot him!” the Reverend shouted.

“Gun’s jammed.”

Roy lowered the rifle from his shoulder, gave it a quick look-over, pumped the lever until a cartridge kicked out and dropped to the floor.

Bolton leaned into the window.

Down on the street, Clay pulled the pistol from his holster and turned to look up at the second floor of the saloon.

“Shoot him!” the Reverend shouted again.

“He’s just a schoolteacher,” Bolton said. “He can’t hit us from down there.”

Roy pulled the Winchester up to the window again, resting the barrel on the sill to take aim.

The shot this time didn’t echo as loudly as before. Bolton thought maybe that was because his ears were still ringing from the explosion. He went to step forward to see through the window when Roy fell back into the Reverend, the rifle slipping from his grip and clattering to the floor.

“What—” the Reverend began.

Bolton gazed down at the street, where Clay slowly lowered the gun to his side, and then, panicked, he looked down at the Reverend’s right-hand man splayed across the floor.

In the middle of Roy’s forehead, almost perfectly placed, was the indent of a bullet hole.

23.

Witashnah witnessed everything.

She saw Marilyn tied to the post—her precious friend Marilyn!—and she saw Clay hurry over and untie her. She heard the first bullet that sent her friend to the ground, just as she heard the second bullet that sent Clay to the ground. She heard Those That Walk The Night off in the distance, their awful combined shuffling coming closer and closer, and she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. With no hesitation, she took one of the sticks of dynamite, lit the fuse, threw it into the nearest building on the corner, and ran.

It exploded almost immediately, the blast much louder and heavier than she had anticipated.

She hadn’t gone far—maybe fifty yards—and the blast knocked her down. She hit the ground hard but managed to quickly climb back to her feet, turning and watching the shards of burning wood floating through the air like fireflies.

The building looked ready to collapse in on itself.

Another shot rang out—a faint and distant snap just over the ringing in her ears—and she hurried back past the building to the street, expecting Clay to be dead now too.

But there Clay stood, lowering his pistol to his side, his gaze focused on the second floor of the saloon. His shoulder was bleeding from where he had been shot but he didn’t seem to notice.

Witashnah turned her attention to the saloon. She could make out two figures through the open window, two dark shapes, and she thought she heard them shouting though she couldn’t be sure. Those That Walk The Night were even closer now, their shuffling growing louder, though there was something different about the sound, something that didn’t sound right.

She sprinted forward. Marilyn lay dead on the ground, and just seeing her there—Marilyn’s pale face, her staring eyes, the blood—made Witashnah’s heart tighten. She wanted to do something for her friend, to say something, but instead she took a breath and looked directly at Clay.

“We must hurry.”

Clay kept his focus on the second floor of the saloon, the gun still at his side.

“I believe the man who killed my daughter is up there.”

“There is not much time. Those That Walk The Night ...”

It suddenly occurred to her what was different about the sound, and she turned away, facing down the street, staring off into the darkening night.

Suddenly gunfire erupted. The shots did not come from the saloon but elsewhere farther down the street. They were wide, too, the bullets tearing into the ground several feet away from them, spitting up dirt.

“What’s wrong?” Clay asked, watching her face.

“Do you not hear them? They are running.”

It was true—the shuffling had turned into a hard pounding, the feet of hundreds and hundreds of demons striking the desert floor.

“Then we best hurry,” Clay said. “How many sticks of dynamite are left?”

“Five.”

He scowled at her. “You used three already?”

“Only one.”

“But we brought eight back with us.”

“There were only six when we arrived here.”

“Then we need to make them count,” he said. “Hand me one.”

She looked at him and was surprised. The man standing there now was not the same scared and broken man she had encountered last night. Instead his eyes had darkened. His posture had straightened. His entire body had tightened. Somehow, in the space of only hours, he had become a warrior.

More shots rang out, the bullets still missing them, as she brought out a stick of dynamite and handed it to him.

“Light it.”

The pounding of the desert floor grew even louder as she used the piece of flintlock to spark a flame and ignite the fuse.

“Now run.”

She didn’t hesitate—she sprinted away, back toward the destroyed building, already reaching in her bag for another stick of dynamite.

The creatures were even closer now, a sea of black writhing shapes hurrying their way.

She took one last look over her shoulder just in time to see Clay throw the stick through the air, the fuse spinning end over end as it arced toward the second floor of the saloon. She heard shouting coming from the open window and then the stick of dynamite disappeared inside.

For an instant nothing happened, and then the second floor exploded, a blast so loud it momentarily drowned out the other gunfire and the quick and frantic approach of Those That Walk The Night.

24.

George wasn’t alone in the jailhouse.

Two of the Reverend’s men were with him. One was the young jailer, the other an older man with a mustache. Both held rifles aimed at the door.

George sat on the bench in his cell, watching the men. He didn’t know what was going on. Last night only the young jailer had stayed with him, and he hadn’t even touched his gun, as outside his friend was sacrificed ...

But had Clay been sacrificed?

George didn’t know. But something strange—well, stranger than the usual strange—was happening. These two here now tightly gripping their rifles just proved it.

The Reverend had been on a tear this morning, angry with his men about something. George hadn’t been able to make out the words through the barred window, but he’d heard the rage and displeasure in the Reverend’s voice. Something had gone terribly wrong. That much was evident.

But what exactly had gone wrong, George couldn’t say.

Throughout the day, he had gone from believing Clay had somehow managed to escape last night, to believing if Clay had escaped he would have come back, and since he hadn’t come back, then he probably hadn’t escaped after all. Which meant the Reverend was ranting about something else altogether. What else would have riled the man up like that?

In the end, George had to admit he didn’t have the slightest idea of what had happened last night or what had gotten under the skin of the Reverend this morning. All he knew for certain, hours later, was that night was approaching, he was still locked in his cell, and that if it all ended tonight he would die without regret. He had done the right thing in helping Clay escape the injustice imposed by Bolton and Logan. And if it had brought George here, to this place and time, and this fate, then so be it.

Something shifted.

George sensed it immediately.

He leaned forward and listened to the hush that seemed to have fallen over the town. The sudden quiet had become familiar now. He imagined it arrived every night, just as darkness was falling, just before the demons came forth from the desert.

The young jailer leaned forward even more on his chair. He moved the rifle from one leg to the other and slipped his hand inside the trigger guard.

Off in the distance, the quiet finally broke.

That god-awful shuffling started up, as George had known it would, and it brought to mind a herd of buffalo snorting warm air on a cold morning. He had no idea why the sound brought up that particular image, but it filled his mind almost immediately and was lost again only after he heard the sound of voices somewhere outside.

For a moment, George wasn’t sure he had heard voices at all—maybe it had been his mind making another unexplainable jump—but by the time he had convinced himself it had been voices, a single gunshot rang out from somewhere down the street.

There was a brief silence, then another shot.

Both of the Reverend’s men roused off their chairs to their feet. They kept the rifles aimed at the door.

An explosion went off outside.

A flash of light through the jailhouse windows bloomed briefly. The repercussion from the blast rattled the jail cell bars. Dust rained down from the ceiling.

George moved to the bars to see what was going on.

The explosion had been nearby, just down the street.

Another single gunshot sounded, followed moments later by an explosion of gunfire.

George couldn’t see what was going on from the cell, but he could smell the acidy smoke and gunpowder in the air.

What the hell was going on out there?

Another explosion of sound erupted.

Not gunfire this time.

And not from down the street.

Someone was pounding on the jailhouse door.

In one moment, all the color fell out of the face of the young jailer. In the next moment, the kid panicked and opened fire at the door. The second guard joined in a second later and the room became deafening.

George watched them riddle the door until their rifles finally kicked out the last shells and there were no more bullets.

The room fell into an eerie silence.

Smoke hung thick in the air, drifting in the soft breath of moonlight.

The two guards exchanged a glance that betrayed their apprehension. Then the older man motioned the kid to open the door.

George moved to the front of the cell. He wrapped his fingers around the bars and felt the cool metal press into his palms.

The kid approached the door as if he thought it might explode with the slightest misstep. He took hold of the knob, sucked in a breath, and yanked the door open. As he stepped back, he raised the empty rifle.

Nothing stood on the other side.

Not a person.

Not a demon.

Not the Reverend.

Nothing.

The kid lowered his rifle and turned back to his partner. He whispered, “There’s nobody—”

A figure stepped into the doorway.

Two quick shots rang out, and both guards collapsed to the floor.

The figure entered the jailhouse, stopping long enough to pick up the cell key from the desk, and approached the cell door.

George said, incredulous, “Clay?”

“We need to hurry.”

Outside, a new round of gunfire went off, barely heard beneath another raucous explosion. Once the sound of the explosion began to quiet, another sound moved to the front of George’s mind—the shuffling of the demons.

Only ... they weren’t shuffling. Not like they had last night. But they were close now. Nearly in the street.

Clay shoved the key into the lock, turned it, pulled the cell door open.

“They’re already here,” Clay said. “We have to hurry.”

“Who? More of the Reverend’s men?”

“Those That Walk The Night.” Clay took the rifle hanging off his shoulder and shoved it in George’s hand. “Get moving.”

25.

It wasn’t the explosion that ended Reverend Titus Willard’s life, but rather the saloon stairs. Only the stairs themselves did not kill him; they were merely the means to an end.

Bolton was closest to the door when Clay, down on the street below them, threw the dynamite. He should have been the first one out. But Willard moved quicker than he had ever moved in his life, flaying his arms at Bolton until his fingers grasped part of the man’s shirt, and he managed to pull Bolton back, creating enough space to slip through.

Willard ran.

Right down the hallway of the saloon, right for the stairs. The distance wasn’t that far but it felt like miles. He was briefly aware that his heart was pounding something awful. He could feel it in his chest and in his throat and in his head. A bead of sweat had formed on his brow and hung on one eyebrow, just dangling there, until it dropped into his eye. He blinked suddenly, and right then the dynamite exploded, rocking the entire saloon, and Willard, having reached the stairs, tripped over his own feet.

He went headfirst down the stairs, tumbling like a child at play. Only there was no fun and games to be had here. There was only pain—massive amounts of pain—streaking through his body as bones twisted and snapped. One of his hands sprang out to grab hold of the railing but his fingers just barely grazed the wood. He kept rolling and rolling until, all at once, he stopped.

He lay on the floor at the base of the stairs, staring up at the ceiling. Bits of dust sprinkled down on him, having been disrupted from the explosion. He watched it from his place on the floor, all those thousands and thousands of dust particles floating through the moonlight slicing in through the window. They looked like stars, those dust particles, and for an instant Willard believed he was in space, floating among the heavens.

A voice spoke from somewhere nearby—

“Reverend?”

—and at once Willard was no longer floating in space but rather lying on the floor of the saloon. The pain he had felt before came on even stronger, pulsating throughout his body. He tried sitting up but his left arm was broken. He tried moving his feet but his left foot was broken. At least he thought they were broken—he couldn’t quite see them from where he lay.

He heard footsteps on the stairs, coming closer, and tilted his head to watch Bolton navigating the steps. The man did so in a slow nature, with one hand pressed against his head, like he was hurt.

“Are you okay?” Bolton asked, stopping on the bottom step, his hand gripping the railing.

“Do I look okay?”

The Reverend’s voice was deep and guttural. Something sharp pierced his chest with every word.

Outside, there was a sudden volley of gunfire. It was coming from down the street. From the jailhouse, most likely.

Willard squeezed his eyes tight. He took a slow breath and once again felt that sharp piercing in his chest. He tried another breath, this one much slower, and while he felt the piercing, it wasn’t as bad.

Bolton said, “I nearly died up there.”

Willard opened his eyes.

“You were just going to leave me up there, weren’t you?”

Willard said nothing. It wasn’t from lack of having the words, but simply from the fear of how much pain it might cause to voice those words.

Outside, there came more gunfire, more explosions. But, most importantly, there also came screams. Ear-splitting, agonizing screams.

“They’re here, aren’t they? The demons.”

Willard forced himself to nod, despite the pain.

Bolton looked around the remains of the saloon, as if inspecting the damage.

“What was your plan? When no more drifters came by your town? When the men who were left would have to start dying night after night?”

Willard said nothing.

“You don’t even know, do you? You convinced the town into sacrificing their own children, said it was God’s will, but you never thought about what would happen when everyone in town died. First the women, then the men, and then ... what? Just how were you going to keep it going?”

Still Willard said nothing.

Bolton shook his head slowly, offered up a heavy sigh.

“Well, Reverend,” he said, stepping over Willard’s broken body, “I thank you for your hospitality, but I best be on my way.”

Willard tilted his head just slightly so he could track the man with his eyes. Bolton had only taken six steps before he slowed and stopped and then just stood there. He offered up another heavy sigh, and turned back around.

“Well, hell,” he murmured. “I can’t just leave you lying there, now can I?”

*   *   *

The Reverend was surprised to learn that the pain really wasn’t all that bad. Sure, it was excruciating, almost to the point where it forced Willard to pass out, but the good part was in the minutes he had lain on the floor at the base of the stairs, his entire body had gone numb. Pain kept circulating, but he only felt a specter of it.

It took much effort on both of their parts to get the Reverend on his feet again—well, on his foot; his left ankle had indeed been broken during the fall—but once he was up and had his arm around Bolton, they started toward the exit without much trouble.

Outside the saloon came more gunfire, as well as another explosion, and there was even more shouting and screaming.

Willard braced himself against the pain, his eyes shut. In the darkness he could picture them there in his mind, the demons surrounding his men, eating them alive.

Then they stopped and Willard opened his eyes and saw that they had made it to the saloon’s front door. Somehow it hadn’t been destroyed during the explosion. Even the glass hadn’t been cracked. Through it Willard could see them out there, the demons.

Based on the nocturnal shuffling he had heard these past several weeks, he had expected them to be slow creatures. But here they were running, nearly sprinting, moving at unnatural speeds as they climbed up the sides of buildings, as they tore his men limb from limb.

“Back,” Willard managed to say. “We ... should use ... the back.”

“There they are,” Bolton said, pointing with his free hand.

Willard squinted, pain flaring up his neck as he tilted his head. He couldn’t make out what Bolton meant at first. All he could see were the demons.

Then he saw them, Clay and his friend and ... was that a woman?

“Where are they headed?” Bolton asked, as the three disappeared into a building.

Willard’s focus shifted back to the street. To the demons sprinting back and forth. To the pieces of his men strewn about the dirt. To all the blood glimmering in the moonlight.

“Hey!” Bolton said, jerking him.

Willard blinked at the sudden pain, shifted, and muttered, “The livery.”

A moment later three horses came racing out of the building, carrying Clay, his friend, and the woman. A few of the demons spotted them, started giving chase.

“Let’s go,” Bolton said, reaching for the saloon door handle.

“No ... we can’t ... go out there.”

Sunbursts of pain exploded with every desperate word.

“Not we, Reverend. You.”

Willard tilted his head slightly to look at Bolton.

The man was grinning back at him. “I may be a coward, but I am not a stupid man. If I have any chance of leaving this town alive, I’m gonna need some help—and you, Reverend, are that help.”

Bolton’s hand gripped the door handle, and immediately Willard understood.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head in small jerks.

Bolton opened the door. He said, “May you rot in hell,” and pushed Willard forward, out over the walkway into the street.

Willard tried swinging his arms to catch his balance, he even tried to move his feet, but it was no good. He went down face-first into the dirt.

The demons nearby sprinting back and forth—many streaked with his men’s blood—immediately stopped and turned in his direction.

Their faces had no eyes, but their mouths were large with teeth.

Reverend Willard Titus offered up one final prayer—

Dear Lord, please no

—but it was already too late.

The demons sprang forward and began to feast.

26.

The creatures had somehow doubled in their individual physical size since Witashnah had last seen them. They were huge. And they were fast, too, almost too fast, cluttering the main street, swarming onto the plank walkways, scaling the sides of buildings. Luckily, only a portion of them gave chase as she led Clay and George out of town, urging her horse to go faster and faster.

Behind her, Clay let out a war cry. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see him kick a creature hard enough to send it away from his horse, head over heels. By the time she turned around again, another creature was grabbing at her saddle.

Witashnah drew her gun, put the barrel inches away from the creature’s head, and fired off a shot.

The three riders picked up speed as they entered the open desert, using what little ammunition they had left to fend off the manic creatures.

She reached for the very last stick of dynamite, held it steady as she gripped the reins and attempted to light the fuse. She was going too fast, and the flame kept winking out, but after several long seconds she managed to keep it lit and got the fuse going and then she twisted in her saddle, just long enough to see the creatures behind them—maybe a hundred—and she flung the stick of dynamite at the head of the swarm.

At the last moment Clay swerved his horse and looked up and saw the stick coming at his head. He ducked, and the stick passed over him, and a second later there was a massive explosion, even more massive now that they were out in the open, the ground coughing up dirt and sand and bits and pieces of the creatures.

It didn’t stop them all, however. There were still more creatures, but they seemed to be slowed by the explosion, giving up the chase. Witashnah urged her horse forward, as did Clay and George, until they crested the ridge and disappeared onto the other side.

*   *   *

The sky was clear, the moon bright, and the air chilly by the time they arrived at the cave.

There had been no more encounters with Those That Walk The Night.

“Why are we stopping here?” George asked.

“My grandfather,” Witashnah said.

She headed for the tunnel that would lead to the cave, Clay behind her.

George stayed where he was.

Clay asked, “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong? I thought you were dead for one thing.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“I can see you’re not. But what—what happened to you?”

Clay exchanged a glance with Witashnah. “What do you mean?”

“You’re different.”

“George—”

“You’re different and I don’t understand what’s going on. Who is this anyway?”

He motioned at Witashnah, who lowered her eyes.

“I am Witashnah, one of the last of the Tachucua tribe.”

“George,” Clay said, patience in his voice, “we’ll explain everything to you as soon as we can. But right now we need to collect Akecheta.”

“Who’s Akecheta?”

“Follow us and you’ll see.”

*   *   *

The fire was going strong, creating dancing patterns of light and shadow across the stone ceiling. Akecheta sat on the far side of the fire, staring at the flames as if he could see them even in his blindness.

“We must leave,” Witashnah told him in her native tongue.

Akecheta grunted and shook his head.

She was fully aware of how stubborn he could be. Sometimes it was because he was an old man set in his ways. And sometimes it was because he knew something he had chosen not to share with her.

Witashnah repeated her request.

Akecheta shook his head again.

The patterns of light and shadow suddenly changed direction and danced off toward the far end of the cave.

Witashnah felt a chill pass through her body.

“What the hell?” George said from behind her.

She turned and there, standing just inside the cave, was a boy.

27.

Clay had never considered himself a superstitious person. Like many people born in his area of the world, he went to church every Sunday and said his prayers before every meal and before he went to bed, so he believed in God and he believed in the Devil and he knew there was good and evil in the world. And despite everything he had experienced these past two days—first hearing the demons, and then seeing them—he knew there was more in the world than he could ever begin to imagine. But ghosts? No, ghosts were something he had never truly believed in.

Even now, standing in the cave with George and Witashnah and Akecheta, he didn’t believe what he was seeing was real.

The boy—the boy he and George had found only days ago, the boy they had brought into the first town and which had been taken to the second town, the boy who was then sacrificed—that boy was standing here, now, in front of them.

But that couldn’t be possible.

The boy was dead.

Only he wasn’t.

He was standing here, his clothes dirty, his hair a mess.

Grinning at them.

“What the hell?” George said again. “That can’t—that really can’t be him, can it?”

Clay knew George was talking to him but still he said nothing. He hadn’t felt it before when he and George first encountered the boy, but he certainly felt it now.

The boy felt wrong.

“He’s here,” Clay whispered.

“Who’s here?” George asked.

“The god.”

A cord in the fire snapped and hissed, sending a flurry of sparks up toward the ceiling.

Clay stepped back slowly, one foot after another, until he was right beside Akecheta.

“We have to leave,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure why—the boy could clearly hear him regardless of what tone of voice he used, and even if he couldn’t, it didn’t matter. Clay suspected the boy wasn’t planning to let any of them leave this cave.

The boy, still grinning, took a step forward.

Witashnah and George both took a step back.

George looked at Clay, fear in his eyes. Then he scrunched up his face, said, “I’ll take care of this,” and stepped forward.

Clay shouted, “George, no!”

George ignored him and strode forward, picking up speed, meaning to push the boy away.

The boy didn’t even flinch.

He held his ground, and when George reached for him, the boy swung his arm and sent George reeling back against the cave wall. George’s head hit the stone and bounced back, and his entire body slid to the ground.

Witashnah hurried to his side. She crouched down beside him.

“Is he okay?” Clay asked.

She nodded. “He is still breathing.”

From where he stood, Clay could hear George groaning. He watched as his friend slowly started to move on the ground, lifting his head.

The boy, still grinning with his gaze on Akecheta, took another step forward.

“No!” Witashnah screamed.

Clay wasn’t sure what she meant at first, his own gaze stuck on the boy. But then he blinked and saw her rising to her feet, a gun in her hand.

She aimed it right at the boy’s head.

“Don’t!” Clay shouted, understanding what she meant to do and understanding what it would mean.

But it was too late.

Her finger tightened around the trigger, and the hammer clicked, and the bullet struck the boy in the forehead.

He flew back, his head knocking into the cave wall much the same way as George’s head. Only it was very clear the boy would not be getting back up.

Another cord snapped and hissed in the fire, but besides that, the entire cave was silent.

Suddenly a hand grabbed Clay’s wrist.

Clay, startled, looked down.

Akecheta was looking up at him with his blind eyes.

The old man nodded once, slowly.

And like that, the blind spot in Clay’s mind—the only memory of Akecheta’s that was hidden from Clay—opened up, like dark clouds parting to reveal a sky as beautiful and blue as a robin’s egg, and Clay understood that this was what Akecheta had been planning all along, that he had been the one who wanted the god to come here to this cave, a restricted place buried in the earth, and that Clay would be tasked with—

Clay swallowed. Stared hard down at Akecheta. He was faintly aware of a rage beginning to bubble deep inside of him. A rage that displaced the fear and confusion at seeing the dead boy. A rage that reminded him of the night he had accidentally killed the mayor’s son. A rage that acknowledged the fact he had been lied to, manipulated, controlled from the very beginning.

But to what end?

When Clay thought of this, the rage quickly left. A strange calm opened up inside of him. He knew what was at stake, and he knew that it was now his destiny to see it through.

“How?” he asked.

The hand around Clay’s wrist squeezed even tighter, and like before, the old man transferred a memory to Clay. Only this wasn’t an old memory. This memory was new. Very new. A location of something that just may help them. A location of something that had to help them.

“What did he say to you?” Witashnah asked, though obviously she knew her grandfather hadn’t said a word.

“You and George need to leave.”

“But—”

“Now,” Clay said, his voice loud and hoarse, and he glared back at Witashnah, who just stared back at him until, a second later, she nodded.

“What’s happening?” George asked, now on his feet with a hand to his bleeding head.

Without a word Witashnah took his arm and led him toward the cave entrance. George tried to pull back, asking again what was happening, but Witashnah pulled him even harder.

They passed the boy who still lay dead ... and who would forever lay dead.

Because the god had escaped the body, and was now coming for Akecheta.

Clay knew this, because Akecheta knew this.

And Clay could feel it in the air: the sudden drop in temperature, the balance of the two worlds shifting, the entire cave briefly shimmering in and out of focus. The flames of the fire danced even higher. For an instant, Clay thought he saw something in the flames—a face as old as time—but then he blinked and it was gone.

Then, suddenly, Akecheta jerked and the hand gripping Clay’s wrist fell away.

Clay stepped away from the old Indian, away from the fire, toward the corner of the chamber. He kept his focus on Akecheta, who had gone completely still and silent.

In his mind, Clay heard a distant voice, echoing a whisper:

Thank you for bringing us together.

And Akecheta—or rather the god which had now become one with Akecheta—slowly rose to his feet.

28.

George moved as fast as he could, bent over, trying to keep up with Witashnah. His head still pounded from where it had struck the cave wall. Blood or sweat dripped in his eyes and he had to keep wiping it away. Then they arrived at the mouth of the tunnel and George was ready to stand up straight—his back had begun to ache, too—when suddenly Witashnah stopped.

He ran into her, nearly toppling the both of them over.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, wiping more blood or sweat from his eyes, but he saw at once.

They were surrounded.

Hundreds—no, thousands—of demons surrounded them. Most of them were standing completely still, staring back with their sunken faces at the cave. Only a few were in motion, tearing apart what was left of their horses.

“No,” Witashnah murmured. Then, growing louder, “No ... no ... NO!”

Before George could react, she raised the gun and fired at the closest demon. The bullet tore through its head, spraying black blood. The rest of the demons slowly turned to face her.

For an instant, none of them moved.

Then, all at once, they sprang forward.

Witashnah fired again, and again, and again, each bullet taking down a demon, but it was a wasted effort. George knew this, just as Witashnah must have known it. But still she kept pulling the trigger, again and again, even though the hammer kept falling down on empty.

Behind them, inside the cave, George heard screaming.

“Come on!” George shouted, grabbing her arm, and pulled her back toward the mouth of the tunnel.

29.

I was waiting for you and your friend. I knew someone would come along eventually. Someone to take me into that town.

The god moved toward Clay, who backed toward the cave wall, the space between them less than twenty feet.

I knew the blonde woman was a friend of the old man’s granddaughter. I knew she would know where to find him.

The cave wall came up behind Clay, forcing him to stop, as the god continued to move forward.

I could have gone into that town at any time, but I liked playing with them, biding my time as my army grew. I liked smelling their fear night after night. Just as I can smell yours.

Clay kept his focus on the approaching god—now less than ten feet away—as he reached down into the rocks. His fingers grazed what he needed when suddenly the god grabbed him and flung him across the room.

He sailed through the air, through the flames, and slammed into the cave wall. He crumpled to the ground among a few rocks. He reached out, his hand shaking, and gripped one of the rocks and threw it at the god.

The rock bounced limply off the god’s chest as it approached.

A noble effort, but you cannot hurt me. The god placed its foot on Clay’s wrist. Not like I can hurt you.

The god ground its foot into Clay’s wrist, pulverizing the bone.

Clay gritted his teeth, trying everything he could not to cry out. It wasn’t any good. He screamed.

The savage sound of human suffering pleases me. I look forward to hearing more of it soon. I have been waiting centuries for this moment. Once I grow stronger, I will not even need this body anymore.

The god lifted its foot.

Clay opened his eyes just briefly, enough to see the god turning away from him, enough to hear footsteps coming this way through the tunnel.

Yes, the distant voice echoed pleasingly. More humans with which to play.

Despite his useless wrist, despite all the pain screaming through his body, Clay began to crawl. Kicking with his feet, pulling with his uninjured arm, he slowly moved away from the cave wall toward the fire.

“Clay?” echoed a voice through the tunnel—George. “Clay, what’s happening?”

Clay crawled past the flickering flames toward the part of the cave wall he had backed himself up against earlier. He reached it just as George and Witashnah entered the chamber.

Hello, children.

Witashnah screamed.

Clay clamped his eyes shut against the pain as he leaned into the stone wall and pushed himself to his feet. His entire right arm was useless, but his left still worked just fine. He reached down into the rocks where he had reached before and again felt what he had felt before and gripped them and pulled them out and held them behind his back as he turned.

The god had both George and Witashnah by their necks. He was squeezing their windpipes so hard neither of them could breathe, lifting them just enough so their feet barely touched the ground.

“Stop!” Clay shouted.

The god, keeping its back to Clay, cocked its head.

What do you want now?

“Let them go.”

Why should I?

“To prove you’re not pathetic.”

The god cocked its head again, this time back at George and Witashnah. For a moment it didn’t move, just kept strangling them, and then all at once it released its grip on their necks.

They fell to the ground, wheezing and holding their throats.

The god turned away from them to face Clay.

I am not pathetic. The distant echoing whisper gained intensity. It is you humans that are pathetic.

“And yet you waited centuries for this moment. Isn’t that what you said? You waited, because you had no choice. You needed a human to call you forth. Without humans, you’re nothing. And then you waited for your army to grow before you attacked. You—”

In a flash, the god crossed the distance between them, reaching up and placing both hands around Clay’s throat.

The grip was like steel, the thumbs digging into Clay’s larynx, crushing his windpipe.

Humans are the bane of this world. I will destroy them all, starting with you.

Everything began to lose focus. Clay tried kicking but without much effort. He heard something foggy in the distance—his name being shouted—but at first he wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Then he blinked and saw George and Witashnah on their feet at the entrance to the cave. George was shouting Clay’s name. Clay looked back at him, just looked ... and then with all his strength he lifted his left hand. And in his left hand he held the two sticks of dynamite—the two sticks Akecheta had stashed behind the rocks while Clay and Witashnah dozed, the special location that Akecheta had silently revealed to Clay only minutes ago. He nodded at George and Witashnah, just once, and Witashnah, understanding, grabbed George’s arm and pulled him back down the tunnel. George shouted Clay’s name again, this time even louder, but all Clay could hear was the distant echo in his head shouting—

I AM NOT PATHETIC IT IS YOU HUMANS WHO ARE PATHETIC YOU ARE THE BANE OF THIS WORLD I WILL DESTROY YOU ALL

—and Clay lifted the two sticks of dynamite, closing his eyes and thinking of his daughter and smiling as he tossed those two sticks of dynamite toward the dancing flames, the two sticks sailing through the air tumbling end over end until they, too, joined the dance.

part five

RETRIBUTION

30.

Witashnah tugged at George’s arm to keep him moving through the tunnel. They stumbled forward, George resisting, Witashnah determined not to give in to his desire to go back and help his friend.

“You cannot help him!” Witashnah shouted. “If we go back, we die!”

George paused, weighing her words, and then he nodded and turned back toward the tunnel’s entrance.

Witashnah made the same turn ... only to discover they were trapped.

The far end of the tunnel, where it opened to the outside, was churning with creatures.

They were too big to squeeze into the opening and were fighting each other for position, dark forms writhing in a pile that made them almost impossible to discern individually.

“What now?” George asked.

“We cannot go back.”

“Doesn’t look like we can go forward, either.”

Witashnah said nothing. Chances were they weren’t going to survive either way. But at least this way they had a fighting chance.

She gripped George’s arm and pulled him forward, running as fast as she could through the tunnel. As she hit the wall of writhing creatures at full speed, she lowered her head and braced for the impact—which came right as the world exploded behind her.

The sound was deafening.

The ground rumbled.

Rocks and gravel rained down from overhead.

She stumbled forward into the creatures, managing to break through, losing her grip on George as the concussion of the blast flung them forward.

She hit the ground hard, her hands extended to break her fall.

George landed a few feet away, crying out in pain.

A massive cloud of dust billowed from the cave entrance, obscuring their view of the creatures surrounding them.

Witashnah sat up, her ears ringing. She reached for her gun but it was gone. All she had left was her knife, and while she knew it was worthless against the creatures, she pulled it from her belt anyway.

Somewhere beside her, George groaned.

She gripped the knife tightly, waiting for the first creature to strike.

Nothing happened.

Besides the ringing in her ears, the world was silent.

Then the dust began to settle. A cloud shifted in the sky and the moon showed they were indeed surrounded.

But the creatures were gone.

Now all around them, stretching far down the ravine, stood a cropping of cacti.

*   *   *

Witashnah stood up straight, surveying the empty horizon.

George groaned again. “My ankle ... I think it’s broken.”

She helped him stand, bracing his weight against her, as he favored his right leg.

They stood in silence, suspiciously watching the cacti.

“What happened to them?” he asked.

Witashnah didn’t answer. Still bracing George’s weight, she took an unsteady step toward the closest cactus. She reached out her hand, the one gripping the knife. The tip slid into the flesh of the cactus, but that was it. The cactus did not move. It did not bleed black blood.

“Is it dead?” George asked. “The god?”

When she didn’t answer again, he glanced back at the tunnel entrance.

“They’re now trapped in there, aren’t they? Probably dead.”

“You cannot kill a god,” she whispered. She lowered the knife to her side, looked too at the tunnel entrance which had become sealed by an avalanche of rocks. “But you can cause it to leave.”

“So it’s gone?”

She nodded. “For now.”

There was a moment of deep silence until, somewhere in the dark, first one cicada began to chirp, followed by another, and another, and another, until an entire chorus rang out into the night.

“So now what do we do?”

She glanced down at his ankle. “Can you walk?”

He put some pressure on the foot, scrunched up his face, and said, “I can try.”

“Then let us walk.”

*   *   *

Without their horses, they did not go far. An hour passed and they had barely made it down the mountainside.

“Would you like to rest?”

“No,” he grunted, but it was clear the pain was too much.

“Are you thirsty?”

“Do you have water?”

“No.”

He grinned. “Then yes, I’m very thirsty indeed.”

She allowed herself a small smile. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Everyone she had ever known and loved was gone. She was the last of the Tachucua tribe. What was she supposed to do now?

George stared off toward the horizon, then raised his face toward the stars.

“Where are we going anyway?”

“I do not know.”

Soon they started out again. This time their pace was even slower. As they reached the base of the trail, Witashnah paused, holding George beside her.

“What’s wrong?”

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

She smiled as they continued forward. Several minutes later they rounded the corner, and standing on the other side of a massive rock was a saddled horse. Its coat seemed to gleam in the moonlight.

“Well, would you look at that?” George said. “Guess our luck hasn’t run out after all.”

Behind them, a voice said, “Not quite.”

31.

George closed his eyes, grimacing against the pain as he and Witashnah turned around.

Fred Bolton stepped out of the shadows, a revolver in his hand.

“Where’s Clay?”

“Why?” George asked.

“He and I have some unfinished business to take care of.”

George shook his head. “You mean after everything that happened tonight—all the people that died—you still want revenge?”

“Not revenge. Retribution.”

“What’s the difference? It wasn’t Clay who got your son killed. That was an accident. But you ... you strangled that poor girl.”

Witashnah released her grip on George, took a step away.

“Don’t move!” Bolton shouted, pointing the gun at her. He asked again, “Where’s Clay?”

Neither of them answered.

“He’s dead, isn’t he? I saw that explosion. I saw what happened to those ... those monsters.” Bolton shook his head. “They left town right after you three did. It was like something ... like something was calling them. They just stopped what they were doing and left. I was in the saloon at the time, trying to figure out a way to leave with my life. But then ... then when they all just went away, I hurried out and found a horse still alive in the livery, and I ... well, curiosity got the better of me, so I followed them. I watched them from a distance, surrounding that cave you were all in.”

George said, “Are you going to kill us?”

“Been thinking about it. Ever since I saw the two of you start down the mountain. I saw which way you were going and came down here to the base. Figured you would come through this way.”

Witashnah took another step away from George.

Bolton aimed the gun at her again. “I said don’t move!”

George glanced at Witashnah, not sure what she was doing. Then he saw what she was holding behind her back, the object she had pulled from her belt.

He said, “Your boy was a bully.”

The revolver swung back to George. “Watch your mouth.”

“None of the girls in town liked him much, so he had to force what he wanted out of them.”

“Shut your mouth!”

“But you already knew that, didn’t you?” George nodded to himself. “Yeah, you did. Like father, like son.”

The revolver began to shake.

Bolton’s jaw tightened.

He raised the gun, his finger on the trigger, started to speak—

“I’ll show you ...”

—when Witashnah’s knife buried itself into his shoulder.

Bolton screamed. He dropped the revolver, reached for the knife, his face going immediately pale in the moonlight.

Witashnah sprinted forward. She scooped up the revolver, aimed it at Bolton.

“Don’t,” George said.

She looked back at him.

He held out his hand, started limping forward. “Let me.”

She waited for him, keeping the revolver aimed, and when he reached them she handed him the gun.

Bolton again tried to reach for the knife in his shoulder.

“Leave it,” George said.

Bolton’s entire body shook. His shoulder was dark with blood. “But I—”

“Leave it.”

George opened up the gun, emptied the bullets into his palm, tossed the empty cartridges aside.

“Looks like there’s only two rounds left,” he said. He reinserted the two bullets, spun the cylinder closed, pointed the barrel at Bolton. “Make amends.”

“What?”

“Tell us truthfully what you did to Clay’s daughter.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

George pulled the trigger.

The hammer clicked empty.

“That right there?” George said. “That’s God giving you one more chance to own up to what you did.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

“No.”

George raised the gun to Bolton’s face.

“Okay, okay,” Bolton said quickly. “I did it. I killed her.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Why?”

“Because of the election! If the voters found out what my boy did, they wouldn’t re-elect me.”

“So you strangled a poor, defenseless girl.”

“Yes.”

“Just to save your career.”

Bolton was crying now. “Yes.”

“You talk about retribution? This is retribution.”

George tilted the gun down and shot Bolton in the ankle.

Bolton screamed.

George tilted the gun again and shot Bolton’s other ankle.

Bolton screamed again, this time even louder. He rolled on the ground, tears in his eyes.

George leaned down, withdrew the knife from Bolton’s shoulder. He wiped both sides of the blade on Bolton’s shirt, then leaned back and handed it to Witashnah.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Now we leave.”

She nodded and turned and retrieved the horse. She climbed up into the saddle, then helped George onto the back of the horse. Witashnah took the reins, steered them away.

“Wait!” Bolton screamed. “Come back! You can’t leave me! You can’t leave me!”

But they did. They kept riding, neither one looking back, until the mayor’s voice faded away on the wind like it had never been there to begin with.

Epilogue

They rode until the night began to dissipate and grow into morning. The dark black of the sky became a dark blue. Off in the east, the sun began to rise.

They came to a stream and stopped to let the horse drink and rest. Witashnah helped George to the water, and they washed their faces and wounds. Then they sat on the bank and watched the eastern light grow brighter and brighter.

“What do we do now?” George asked.

“I do not know.”

“I can’t go back home. Not after what I just did.”

“I no longer have a home.”

They didn’t speak much after that. Eventually they would get back on the horse and keep going west, but for now they just sat there and watched the sun do what it had done every day since the beginning of time: rise higher and higher in the eastern sky, chasing away the dark.

1

The summer of Nineteen Hundred and Thirty-Three, the good people of Hawley, Kansas, had tucked all their hope for the future into attics and storm cellars and other places where you put things you tell yourself you might need someday, but really are just too sentimental or practical to throw away. It was more than a hardscrabble life. It was a dry, dusty bit of hell. But nobody in Hawley was foolish enough to predict that things couldn’t get worse. If there was one thing they’d learned in the past two years, it was that things could always get worse.

The 1920s had been the boom time. Demand for wheat was sky high and prices soared. Millions of acres of Great Plains farmland were plowed under to plant wheat. Nineteen Hundred and Thirty One had brought a bumper crop—twelve million bushels—according to the papers. So much damned wheat that prices plummeted from sixty-eight cents a bushel the year before, to twenty-five.

Farms shut down; fields were abandoned, as those who couldn’t adapt drifted away, spirit broken.

But most of the folks in Hawley had faith in the land. They’d seen the hardest of times when they’d arrived in Kansas and built towns where there’d been only grasslands before. Pioneer spirit remained. The pioneers had known how to survive. Prayer at sunup and sundown; sweat and grit all the day long.

Farmers increased their herd of milk cows, sold the cream for the money to survive, and fed the skimmed milk to chickens and pigs. But it wasn’t just the price of wheat that scoured the land.

It was the wrath of God.

That’s what Gayle Franklin’s daddy told her. “The wrath of God, Sugar, that’s what it is. We were supposed to take care of the land. Hell, ain’t that why He put us here in the first place? But folks got greedy.”

Gayle was afraid of God.

’30 had been a dry year, but it only got worse. All those abandoned fields went to dirt. Bart Franklin told his little girl he’d never seen anything like the winds that swept the land, the storms that went through from time to time. Biblical weather, he called it. Hundred-degree heat, drought, and far too often a blow that would choke what crops remained with dirt stirred up from the parched land.

The dust bowl, they called it.

Once, when he’d had a bit of whiskey, Gayle heard her daddy say the phrase made it sound quaint, almost pleasant; that they weren’t living in the dust bowl, they were living in Hell. She was never sure if he meant it.

But sometimes she wondered.

Wheat and other crops failed, the ground too dry to nurture them, and farmers in Hawley took to harvesting thistles. When the thistle crop failed, other folks quit and ran. But not Gayle’s mother and father. They were survivors. They went out onto the land and dug up soap weed from the chalky earth, chopped it up in a feed mill and fed it to the animals. Mr. Yancey, their nearest neighbor, tried to make a go of it as well. His son Chester found him dead under the hot sun, his heart burst.

There were blizzards and tornadoes and dirt storms that swept across the plains like the End of Times, huge black clouds that turned day into night and tore from the ground much of the year’s plantings. Still, the pioneers survived—those who would not surrender to despair or to the elements.

Inside the farmers of the dust bowl, the people of Hawley, Kansas, and inside the secret heart of Gayle Franklin, was the unspoken certainty that whatever hardship was heaped upon them, they would survive. Gayle’s daddy had set her a fine example in that regard.

Things might get even worse, but somehow, they were sure, faith would carry them through; in the land, and in themselves.

It was a foolish notion.

On a scorching July afternoon, nine-year-old Gayle sat on the front porch of the house and stared down at her dirty feet. She had a glass of water in her hand and she took a sip, running her tongue over her chapped lips and savoring the wetness of the water. Warm as it was, it was still cool compared to the day. With a glance around to make sure no one was watching, she spilled a few drops on her left foot, watching in fascination as the water made dark streaks of the dirt on her skin. Her daddy would tan her behind if he saw her wasting water, when they’d had no rain for near a month. But it felt nice, and the look of it was interesting.

The wind gusted, rattling the storm door. With a deep frown, the little girl looked up and turned west, the direction from which the wind had come.

The horizon was dark from earth to heaven. The black, churning dirt storm was eating up blue sky as it moved across the land. Gayle’s first thought was that at least there might be some rain. But if the storm was bad, there’d be no crops left to soak it up.

Another gust hit her and her hair whipped wildly about her head. Grit stung her eyes and she reached up to wipe it away. Behind her the storm door slammed over and over.

For just a moment, the wind died. Out across the farm she could see her daddy walking in the cornfield. It was a meager crop, wilted and dry, but most of the farms in Hawley couldn’t get corn to grow at all this summer, so they were lucky. Something swayed in the corn, dark and stiff, and she saw that it was the scarecrow that daddy had put up when he’d seen that the corn was going to come in after all.

“Wishful thinking,” Momma had called that scarecrow. Gayle wasn’t exactly sure what she meant, but hadn’t liked the way momma had said that.

As daddy turned and headed for the house, buffeted by the rising wind, a big gust blew in. There was a loud crack like her daddy’s shotgun, and Gayle saw the scarecrow tumble over, blowing end over end across the field. The wind had snapped the wooden post right in two.

And the storm hadn’t even reached the farm yet.

Gayle watched it, a wall of black cloud, moving toward her.

The wind died. Her hair settled on her shoulders and the storm door stopped its banging, but she wasn’t fooled.

The storm kept on coming, and it brought the darkness with it.

2

The guards at Guilford Prison’s work camp didn’t seem to know a hell of a lot about the project the prisoners were laboring over. Something about irrigation ditches, which—in light of the hard, dry earth—seemed about as sensible as knitting sweaters for sheep. On the rare occasions when the rains came, they swept through quick, splashed enough water down to flood the plains for a day or two, and then they were gone, leaving the land even more ruined than before. The cisterns might be filled, but the ground was so parched than it sucked up every ounce. Irrigation ditches were only useful when there were rivers and streams with water to divert. But there wasn’t so much as a creek within ten miles of Hawley, Kansas that hadn’t gone dry as a bone. Some days the prisoners were set to work harvesting what little could be grown in the soil, the pitiful wheat and corn, but more often thistle and scrub to feed the livestock. If not for the labor of the prisoners, no one at the work camp would have eaten, not the inmates, nor the guards, nor the warden.

But these ditches...far as Hank Burnside was concerned, he might as well have been digging his own grave.

The guards kept to whatever shade they could find, shotguns and rifles resting over their shoulders or cradled in their arms. The sun was blistering hot, and the prisoners had to walk a fine line. The guards were so lethargic with the heat that they weren’t going to go out of their way to stir up trouble—not even for amusement, the way they did so often when the weather was cooler. But tempers were on a short fuse, and that meant the inmates knew better than to push their luck.

Hank paused in his digging, jammed his shovel into the ground and leaned on the handle. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a rag, making a good show of his exhaustion, letting the guards know how hard he’d been working. But when he took up the shovel again and plunged it into the crumbling, dry soil, he moved slowly and did not overexert himself. He’d seen other men just crumble in the field, toppling over to sprawl in the dirt, and he didn’t intend to share their fate. As long as the guards saw that he appeared to be working hard, they weren’t going to take a closer look.

Too damned hot for that.

He gripped his callused hands tighter on the handle of the shovel, ignoring the exhaustion that had become routine now after two long years at the camp. Just yesterday he had reached the halfway point in his sentence. Now there were fewer days trapped here ahead of him than there were behind. With that in mind, he could ignore the heat and the sweat, the ache in his bones, and the way the dirt caked him and the grit stung his eyes.

The shovel split the gray, dusty earth with a scraping rasp. Hank paused. A fresh trickle of sweat ran down the center of his back, almost cold compared to his sun-baked flesh, and he shivered.

The wind kicked up suddenly and he had to turn his face away to avoid getting a mouthful of flying dirt.

“Jesus God, look at that.”

Hank shielded his eyes with a hand and peered toward the horizon. The breath froze in his lungs. Four or five miles off it looked like the world simply ended, as though he could have walked over to the edge and thrown himself into some infinite abyss. From sun-bleached earth, the landscape gave way to a wall of pure blackness, a churning cloud of coal black shadows.

“Son of a bitch, Hank, you ever see a storm like that?” The words came from Terry Pritcher, a cattle thief who’d been in Guilford since the age of seventeen. Fourteen years working the fields had made him lean and ropy with muscle, but it hadn’t made him any smarter.

Hank didn’t even look at Terry, only shook his head. “Never.”

In seconds, the wind kicked up hard, whipping at them and raising loose dirt from the soil, swirling it around them, scouring their flesh. Hank covered his eyes, but could not stop glancing at the storm.

It was coming their way.

Already, the sky above was darkening.

“What do you think, boss?” Pritcher called to the nearest guard. “We ought to get to some cover, don’t you think?”

Fat drops of warm rain began to fall. It felt to Hank as though they seared him instead of soothing, and the dirt in the air sucked at the moisture as though refusing to share.

The guard, J.D. Cotton, scowled, but turned to look where Pritcher was pointing. When Cotton looked, they all looked. All of the guards and all of the prisoners out digging in the withered, lifeless earth.

The upper edges of the dirt storm had begun to spread, mushrooming outward high above, so that it seemed grim black thunderheads were reaching out to claim more of the world. Soon all of the sunlight would be blotted out, day would become false night, and they would all be choked by the wind and the dirt.

“All right, boys,” Cotton said, raising his shotgun and firing once into the air. “Get moving. Stay together. Anyone takes on the foolish notion that this might be a good time to rabbit gets buckshot in the balls. Go!”

The men began to move toward the equipment truck, carrying their shovels and rolling wheelbarrows to load into the back.

The air changed.

Hank felt it. He stopped, and someone collided with him from behind.

“Damn it, Burnside, what the hell’s wrong with you?” an angry voice barked.

He wasn’t listening. With a frown, he turned to look at the storm again. The pressure of the air had changed. The wind had shifted direction. He squinted and had to blink a few times to make sure he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing.

The crest of the storm had blotted out much of the sky, quickly moving their way. And in that churning darkness, several funnels had begun to form. Fingers of furious nature and swirling dirt reached toward the ground.

“Tornadoes!” Hank shouted, pointing.

Inmates and guards alike began shouting, cussing, and took off at a run. The guards climbed into the two trucks. Inmates pulled themselves into the beds of both, no one giving a damn if they were kneeling on shovel blades. The gates of Guilford were mostly barbed wire around the outside, but the buildings inside were like bunkers. They ought to be safe within the walls, in cells or cellars.

Hank Burnside wasn’t afraid of anything, but only a fool wouldn’t have run in the face of that storm. As he gripped the back of the equipment truck, the engine roared and the driver put her into gear and started off. Hank glanced back to see a lone figure in dirty prison overalls racing for an irrigation ditch.

Terry Pritcher figured this was his chance. With the guards distracted, he was on the run.

J.D. Cotton put down his shotgun and picked up a rifle, calmly judging the wind and the distance. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and shot Pritcher in the head from a hundred yards out. Blood and brain and bone sprayed out, mixed with the dirt and the wind and disappeared, even as Pritcher fell into a ditch, dead as the bleached earth.

The truck rattled onto the dirt road and headed toward Guilford Prison.

The storm kept coming. The sky turned black. One after the other, the tornadoes touched down. The ground shook and the wind began to scream.

3

Jeremiah wailed inconsolably, and only one thing could soothe him. Elisa bared her breast and settled her baby against her, doing her best not to wince. He was starting to teethe and she was tender. Though that sharp pain paled by comparison to the deep ache in her temples, the pressure pounding at her skull with each beat of her heart. The throbbing of her pulse was like the fist of a giant, squeezing her head.

Breathe, she told herself. Fresh air will help. And a few minutes of quiet...a few minutes without fighting.

She loved her husband, Stefan, but he shared the blame for her headache. Elisa had begun the argument, but the man was so stubborn that they could not have ended it peacefully. She wished now she had not yelled at him. Then they could at least have pretended to be happy today.

Instead they rode together on the seat at the front of the wagon in the silent aftermath of their argument. Stefan held the reins and willfully avoided looking her way.

Some days she could not remember what it had been like before they came to America, before his dreams and the arrival of their baby son had taken away any hope they had of comfort and peace. Elisa loved Jeremiah with all of her heart and soul—and she still loved Stefan in spite of it all—but the life they had made was misery for her. They fought because she could not keep silent about it, and because Stefan was not willing to admit that perhaps his dreams had led them down a treacherous path. That this had been a mistake...that they should leave Kansas, and try to find a new life somewhere else.

Elisa flinched as Jeremiah scraped her nipple with his teeth. She looked down at her baby and saw the tired contentment on his face, the closest thing to bliss that existed in the world, and she smiled. As long as she had Jeremiah, she could endure whatever came.

She bent to kiss the baby’s head, and when she glanced up, she caught Stefan studying her with love and regret in his eyes. But he said nothing. Only shook his head and turned to gaze at the darkening sky on the horizon.

After a moment, he finally spoke, but his tone was clipped and distant.

“There’s a bad storm coming. Dirt storm, most likely. We need to find shelter.” The wagon creaked and swayed beneath them, the wheels moving over the uneven ground and rocking them like a boat upon a turbulent sea.

Elisa bit her lower lip and resisted the urge to tell him that shelter would be easier to find if he hadn’t been swindling the people at all of the surrounding farms. She looked at the mass of clouds that churned in the heavens and blinked the grit away from her eyes. Then she cradled Jeremiah even more tightly to her as he fed. Jeremiah made it all worthwhile, even the deceptions.

She knew her anger was fruitless, but that did not stop it coming. Her family was Rom, and they’d traveled all of Europe in wagons much like this one. But that was three generations ago and she could not live her life the way that her ancestors had. She’d gone to school; she’d been educated and—in her mother’s words—civilized. This wasn’t any sort of life she had wished for.

All of the things that Stefan did—including selling his camphor and alcohol elixir and making absurd promises about its virtues—he did for the sake of their family. She could forgive him that. But he would not need to make up such lies if his damned wanderlust had not stranded them in this blighted land to begin with. They would never have gotten rich on what he had earned as a fishmonger in Boston, but they would have made due. Now their house was a distant memory and he held onto the belief that he could somehow make enough as a traveling salesman to earn them a better life somewhere else.

Elisa had her thick, curly hair pulled back into a ponytail. The wind that harbingered the storm buffeted her and her hair whipped across her face. That same growing breeze lifted dust from the ground in a rising ghost of a cloud and cast it across the rutted path the wagon moved along.

Stefan called to the horses and pulled the reins, halting the wagon.

“Elisa! Take Jeremiah and go inside!”

His voice was strained, but she knew her husband well enough to know that it was not anger than unsettled him now. It was fear.

The sky roiled with black clouds, a tidal wave of storm that swept slowly toward them. Black fingers reached down from the sky and traced across the ground. She had seen tornadoes before, of course, but never this close. Four thin strands of dust and filth spread apart and cut into the land from each point of the compass. Darkness danced madly where they touched the arid earth and brought the promise of sudden, violent death.

The sky howled and Elisa climbed from the seat, holding her son to her chest. She went around to the back of the wagon and clambered through the curtain flaps that hung there, Jeremiah in one arm. Stefan shouted to the horses, got them moving again, and coaxed them along, heading off of the road and across a barren field.

She quickly strapped down the few items that were not already tied in place, resisting the urge to throw Stefan’s elixirs out through the back while he was too occupied to notice. In the wagon, some of the many crucifixes he had collected in his travels swayed from their chains and on hooks. Through the small window she could see a man dancing madly, waving his arms as he whirled in tight circles.

Jeremiah removed his mouth from her nipple and belched, looking up at her with all the trust and love in the world. She smiled at her little boy and then looked out the window again in time to see the lunatic dancer careen toward the wagon. Elisa almost screamed but instead merely sighed when she realized it was merely a scarecrow broken free from his post. The canvas face smashed against the window and black button eyes stared at her for a moment before the wind stole back its dancing partner.

Elisa held on to her son with both of her arms as the wagon rocked and swayed dangerously toward the left. Through the window she caught a quick glimpse of a farmhouse, and a second later of the monstrous black nightmare that tore it asunder.

Outside, doing his best to lead them to safety, Stefan held on to the reins and cursed his horses as they whinnied in fear. Elisa closed her eyes and held her breath as shattered boards and tar-paper shingles hurtled through the air, all that remained of a home destroyed by the fury of the storm.

Elisa lay down in the center of the wagon and sheltered her son with her body. She had no faith in God, but she refused to believe that she and her family would have come all of this way to die in the middle of a stretch of ruined farmland.

A hail of debris, rocks and dust assailed the wagon and she could her husband praying. “Please, Lord,” he called out to the howling storm. “Watch over Elisa and Jeremiah. Protect us, keep us safe in Your hands and shelter us from this and all obstacles. Amen.”

Elisa would not pray.

Funnel clouds moved across their path and blocked every possible method of escape. But she would not pray.

If there ever had been a God, she felt certain He had long since gone.

4

Gayle Franklin swallowed the hot grit that coated her tongue and stared at the sky with wide eyes. The air was still, and she could see the dust falling from the air in a fog of midnight.

The storm was coming this way, a massive wall of churning dirt and hurricane wind that was going to plow right over them. She knew she had to move, knew every warning sign she was seeing, but her legs didn’t want to follow orders from her head. Off in the field, she saw her father running for the house, his legs pumping furiously and one hand held to his face, clutching the handkerchief that made it possible for him to breathe at all in the caul of gray dust. She could track his progress by the little clouds that rose up from the dirt with his every step, could see his wide, frantic eyes.

“Pa...” she called, her voice breaking.

He used to be such a big man and these days he seemed as skinny as the scarecrow she’d watched blow away. The calm was here, and the storm was on its tail, furiously hunting for prey. She called to her father again, but her voice was a whisper and a whole field still separated them.

Behind him the midnight clouds descended, spitting dusky shadows into the air even before they touched the ground. That was silliness, of course, a touch of heat fever on her brow surely, because any fool knew a tornado that hadn’t touched down yet couldn’t have picked anything up to begin with. Any fool from Kansas, at least.

“Run, Pa...run faster...” Gayle placed her hand on the window and felt a chill on the glass that earlier had been hot to the touch. Far in the distance she could see the Yancey farm, where Lorenzo and Enid Yancey had been toiling as hard as her own folks, but with less success. Her eyes moved from her father, closer now, so much closer than he had been before, his legs moving almost in a blur, over to the Yancey place. She was looking directly at buildings she had known all of her life when the tornado touched the roof of the house like the hand of God.

Gayle stepped back from the window, rigid with horror, as the Yancey farm disintegrated, feeding itself into the cyclone. The base of the thing had been a tiny tendril and now was a serpentine dervish, twisting and shaking as it roared and ripped the Yancey place apart.

She looked toward the heavens, almost expecting to see an angry face, a horrid mouth and eyes of lightning staring back. There was only the storm, but she was not comforted. Somehow its blank fury was worse.

Below her, the front door slammed open, the wind banging it against the house again and again, a cavernous drum beat that startled her almost as much as the sound of the tornado.

“Gayle! You get down here, girl! There’s a twister coming our way!”

When she heard her father’s voice she let out the breath she hadn’t been aware of holding. Her eyes remained locked on the funnel as it writhed and snapped at the air. For a moment she thought she saw angels in the sky, holding the clouds at bay and struggling to protect them all.

But that couldn’t be. Angels had to be stronger than a storm, or they wouldn’t be angels. Still she would have sworn to the Almighty Himself that she saw winged men falling to the ground from impossible heights. Angels cast down or demons ready to pillage the land and take whatever the twister left behind.

“GAYLE!”

Her father’s scream snapped her out of her fearful trance and Gayle rushed out of her bedroom into the hall. The house wasn’t safe, couldn’t possibly be safe. She knew that as surely as she knew the view from her window would never be the same again.

The stairs creaked and seemed to sway beneath her feet as she ran down to the first floor, her eyes stung by the dust blowing in through the open door, where he father stood waiting.

“We have to run, Sugar! We have to run now!”

He was thinner than when she was a child, true, but her father grabbed Gayle in his arms and half carried her as he ran for the storm cellar. Across the yard, her mother waited for them with one of the heavy wooden doors propped up, straining to hold it open despite the wind. The doors led down into the earth itself. Gayle had never liked it down there.

Beyond her mother she could see only the blackness of the dirt storm, this terrible night that had swallowed the day, and hear little besides the churning roar of the tornado that come down out of it and now moved toward their home, tearing the very earth apart in its fury.

Gayle scrambled down the wooden stairs nailed into the ground and lost herself deep in the darkness of the storm cellar, her hands trembling. Her mother came down next and moved to her, a strong woman with a face made old before it should have been. Her father was last, pausing only long enough to slam the cellar doors shut, and then lock them into place with a stout crossbeam as thick around as his own thigh.

They huddled together in the darkness, in the chill of the underground shelter, and Gayle wondered what would be left of the farm when the storm was done with its tantrum. She closed her eyes and clutched at the arms of her parents as the darkness howled above them and rattled the wooden doors. Her eyes stayed closed, sealed against the nightmares and the night.

5

The morning after the dirt storm and the tornadoes had torn their way through Hawley, Gayle awoke in the cellar under the Franklins’ farmhouse. A layer of dust covered her, having slipped like mist through the cracks around the doors and collected on everything and everyone while the family slept.

The doors stood wide open and the sun shone down the steps onto the dirt floor. Gayle smiled at the sight, a strange relief coming over her. It had been foolish—childish, she told herself—but she had been afraid that morning would never come, that the darkness of that storm would swallow the world and she’d have to live in the wind and the dark forever, with the scream of the tornadoes making her clutch her hands to the side of her head every moment.

She had fallen asleep like that, with her hands over her ears.

“Momma?” Gayle said softly. She wiped grit from her eyes as she stood up and then brushed off her dress. Suddenly she needed very badly to pee.

With a frown she headed for the splash of sunlight, and then up the stairs and outside. The first thing she saw was that a section of the south field had been plowed up by a twister, crops torn out of the ground. The fence down that end of the property was just gone, save a few splintered posts sticking up out of the dirt. Of the Yancey farm in the distance, all that she could see was jagged rubble. The barn and the house had been reduced to nothing but memories.

Gayle stared, breath caught in her throat. How could that be? How could they just be gone? And if the buildings were gone, where were the Yanceys?

In town, she told herself. They must have gone into town.

“Momma?” she asked again, if only to hear the comforting sound of her own voice. For several seconds she did not even look around from the devastation. Then, with no response from her mother, she started around to the front of the house.

The windows were all open. Two of the big ones had cracks in the glass, but hadn’t shattered. That was lucky. From inside she heard the sounds of cabinets being opened and closed, and now she called out louder.

“Momma?”

Her mother’s face appeared in a kitchen window, a crack in the glass like a scar slicing down her cheek. “Morning, Sugar. You still in one piece?”

Gayle smiled, heart swelling with the sound of her mother’s voice. “Yes, ma’am. One piece.”

“You looked peaceful and I didn’t want to wake you, darlin’. We’ve got a lot of work to do today. I’m trying to clean up a bit in here, and to figure out if we’ve got anything to eat that isn’t caked with dirt. I don’t suppose you want mud pies for breakfast?”

The little girl rolled her eyes heavenward. “No, ma’am. If it’s all right with you, I don’t have much appetite for mud pies.”

Her mother laughed softly and now Gayle looked around. “Daddy out in the field?”

“Looking over the damage,” she confirmed, and then her smile faded. “We’ve still got some crops growing out there that didn’t get choked out in the storm. Ain’t gonna be easy, but we’re a sight better off than the Yanceys. Poor folks don’t have anything left.”

“Are they all right?” Gayle asked, eyes widening.

“Believe so. Your daddy thinks they went into town last night after the worst of it past, looking for a place to stay.”

Which was exactly what Gayle had thought. She liked the idea that she and her father had come to the same conclusion. It made her feel grown up, somehow.

“You come on in and give me a hand, now, little one. You hear?”

“Yes, Momma. But I’ve got to go, first.”

Her mother had begun to move away from the window, but now her face returned, a lopsided smile turning into a soft laugh. “Well go on, then, Gayle. You don’t need permission to pee.”

Again she brushed at her dress, dust clouding around her. A clear, gentle breeze carried it away. There were wisps of white clouds in the sky, but no trace of the deadly, brutal weather that had come through the previous afternoon and evening.

Gayle walked along the porch and then around the side, headed for the outhouse. Fortunately, the little hut had not been blown over by the storm. As she walked, she peered across the farm in search of her father. She saw a figure near the corn that she thought might be him, but then she realized that it was just the scarecrow.

In her mind she could still see the way it had snapped off and pinwheeled away in the wind. Her daddy must have repaired it already, wanting to take care of the corn, since that particular crop had withstood the storm pretty well. If the new dirt and dust that would have been spread across the field didn’t choke the stalks, it would be just fine.

That made her feel a little better.

As she began to look away, the sun glinted off of something on the ground and the gleam caught her eye. Gayle paused, then veered in that direction. The need to visit the outhouse had abated a little now that her attention was elsewhere.

On the ground, covered in a layer of dried dirt, was a doll with red hair and a pretty pink dress.

Gayle squealed with surprise and bent to pick up the doll, gleeful as though it was Christmas morning. After the terror of the storm, this was better than Christmas.

She brushed off the doll’s dress and then touched its face. The head of the doll was porcelain and when she traced her finger across it, she found that the enamel gleamed. The doll’s eyes and smile made her so happy that she hugged it to her, and even as she did, she saw the others.

Scattered across the yard in front of her were other dolls, dozens of porcelain figures, some of them almost a foot long but others tiny things small enough to fit into the palm of her hand. This time, Gayle did not squeal. She held her breath and stared in utter astonishment. Wherever these dolls had come from, a twister must have sucked them up and then dropped them down right here on her property.

Her mind raced as she walked over to pick up the next one, with pretty blond hair, and then the next, a little baby doll with the widest blue eyes. This was someone’s collection, somewhere. If they ever found out where the dolls had landed, they’d want to take them away.

Heat touched her cheeks and her eyes threatened tears when she thought of someone taking the dolls away. Gayle wasn’t greedy. She wouldn’t need to keep them all. There were so many she couldn’t count, dozens of them. But even if she could keep a few—the prettiest ones—her daddy might be able to sell the others and make a little money. That would help the whole family. It would be terrible if they had to give them back.

She crouched to look at a doll whose porcelain face looked different, darker. In her brown dress, the doll was almost like an Indian squaw, and Gayle decided that was exactly what she was.

Maybe if she was lucky, no one would ever come looking. Whoever had collected them would think the storm had taken them away and that was that. After all, who would have thought all of these dolls could be carried away by a twister without the violence of the storm breaking their porcelain heads. Not one of them was damaged. Dirty, yes, but unbroken.

Her arms were already full, so she did not pick up the squaw doll. She would have to collect them all and bring them up to the house to show her mother.

Gayle stood up and glanced around, and again the scarecrow in the cornfield caught her eye. She was nearer to it now, and something made her frown and stare harder. It was the hat, she decided. It was black and pointed and didn’t look right. In fact, she was sure it was not the same hat that the scarecrow had always worn.

Slowly, dolls clutched in her hands, she walked across the yard to the cornfield and made her way to the scarecrow. There wasn’t a bird in sight, so it must have been doing its job. The dolls felt strangely heavy in her arms and, where their porcelain faces touched her bare skin, they were cold.

At first, Gayle stood and blinked at the scarecrow. It didn’t look right at all. Their scarecrow had a brown jacket, faded from the sun, and green pants. This one wore different clothes—clothes that had never belonged to her daddy. It was a different scarecrow altogether.

And where the other scarecrow, the one that had broken off and blown away, had been hung on its post, arms pinned to the crossbar, this one had no crossbar at all. Its arms hung down by its sides. Instead of being hung to the post, the enormous wooden stake—possibly a piece of broken fence, now that she looked at it—had been driven right down through its body so it stuck through the scarecrow’s chest and up out of its back, right between the shoulder blades.

It had an old burlap sack for a face, with a slit for the mouth, stitched at the edges. Gayle was afraid of the scarecrow, now that she’d had a closer look. Its eyes weren’t sewn or drawn on—they were closed. What kind of bird was going to be afraid of a scarecrow that looked asleep?

Or dead, she thought. It looks dead.

The scarecrow opened its eyes, and it screamed. Its limbs splayed wide as it twisted on the post, a shriek of terror and agony coming from its burlap mouth. For several seconds it jerked and flailed on the post and then the sudden burst of life seemed to dwindle. Its limbs fell with a flaccid slap and then it seemed to notice her.

“It’ll spread here now, little girl...the darkness...just like Oz, the blood will spill and it’s never enough...the monsters are here...”

Inside the burlap face, the eyes were wide and white as a man’s. Then they fluttered and closed again. The scarecrow twitched once, and then blood began to trickle from the corners of its eyes and from its mouth, and to spread in a stain across its shirt.

The blood dried in a moment, and then it all began to fall apart: the burlap crumbled like a withered beehive, falling to dust; red-stained straw spilled out onto the ground, and soon that was all that remained of the scarecrow.

Gayle had forgotten how badly she had needed to pee. She had been holding her breath, and now she gasped, and a hot stream of it ran down her leg.

At last she could scream.

It echoed out across the fields. No birds were disturbed. Not a single one. The storm had kept them away, or something had. When the echo of her scream died, Gayle backed away from the post that jutted from the ground and then at last turned and ran for home, the porcelain dolls still clutched in her arms.

The others, she would come back for later, with her momma to help her gather them.

Not alone.

6

Elisa felt like crawling out of her skin.

The wagon sat at a crossroads, just off onto the grass so as not to block anyone coming along the way. Stefan was setting up a table just at the crux where the two roads met, about half a mile outside of the center of Hawley. Just about every farmer in the area who wanted to go into town today for supplies or just to find someone to share the tale of the dirt storm with would have to come this way to get there.

Stefan had a plan. He had gone through his new pitch with her all morning. “If you’re parched, Romany Elixir will take away your thirst, and if you’re ailing, it’ll perk you up. But this old country concoction is not merely a tonic for your health, it’s the salvation of your crops as well. Now I don’t have a great deal of it, and it don’t come cheap, but sprinkle a bit of this into the ground around the roots, and Romany Elixir will revive your plantings just as it would your own spirits.”

Her husband had been so excited when he shared this with her. Now she watched him, the cut of his handsome face, dark with stubble, the strength in his powerful arms with the sleeves rolled up, and the unruly thatch of his dark hair as he began to set bottles onto the table, and Elisa knew she loved him.

But she was ashamed of him as well.

This was no life for her. It had seemed so romantic when he had first proposed it to her. They had come from the old country to Boston, but he had not settled easily into city life.

His heart had wanted to wander. They could not afford an automobile, and so the old-fashioned cart had become their transport, and too often their shelter for the night.

Elisa had left the life of the Rom behind and come to the new world for a new beginning. And now it was as though they had never left. All across America, they were seen as “gypsies,” a hated name. And they were treated accordingly. But what had they done to shake that image from people’s minds?

Sold them an elixir with promises of miracles that would never come.

She held her darling child in her arms and sang to him. Jeremiah gazed up at her with his laughing eyes, but they were growing heavy. He had just fed and needed to sleep now for a time.

So she sang to him, and watched Stefan at work, and dreaded the next car or truck or wagon to come along the road. The baby was growing and Elisa had to shift him on her lap, still singing softly. As she moved, she glanced northward, toward the trees across the road, and she saw something moving in the high grass. She froze.

It could not be.

But as it trotted toward them and the grass parted, the sun shone off of its golden fur, muscles rippling beneath the skin. The wind ruffled its mane. It paused and cocked its head, staring at her as though evaluating her somehow.

A lion.

Impossible, a tiny voice said in her mind.

But there it was, real and solid, a massive, murderous predator. The intelligence in its eyes made her heart clench in terror. It stared at her hungrily.

Somehow, she had kept singing, not even aware of it. Now she ceased. After a moment, Stefan frowned and glanced up at her, wondering why she had stopped. From the corner of her eye she saw him look at her, but she could not take her gaze from the lion. The sight of the beast riveted her.

In her arms, Jeremiah began to cry.

Stefan swore in the language of their people. He had seen the lion. Elisa almost screamed to him to stay still, to do nothing, afraid that he would bring the monster down upon them.

Then her husband ran to the back of the wagon and she could hear pots and crates shoved aside as he reached for his rifle.

The lion took its eyes off of Elisa and she knew it was watching for Stefan’s return. It glanced at her again, and for some reason the great beast seemed weary to her, then. Weary, and sad.

It turned and ambled back into the trees.

By the time Stefan ran to the road with his rifle, the lion was gone.

7

The prisoners of Guilford had spent the night huddled against walls and praying that they would live to see the dawn. Now as the sun reached its zenith, most of them were once again praying for the night to come and save them from the blistering heat.

Hank scraped his shovel blade through the ash-fine dust that had filled in half of the irrigation ditches they’d been digging and held his breath as he tossed it to the side. Days, maybe weeks’ worth of work undone by the storm. But what difference did it make, really? There was no reward for progress. To Hank, and the other prisoners, one ditch was as good as the next.

No one spoke about what had happened to Terry Pritcher the day before. No one had to. The guards seemed at ease today, and Hank understood why. They could relax for a bit. No one in their right mind would consider running the day after another inmate’s head had been used as fertilizer. Hank’s brain might be boiling in his skull, but it was still working well enough to make sure he used his common sense.

He paused a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and then licked the salty fluids into his mouth. Any moisture would do in a pinch. At least he’d never had to try drinking piss.

The shovel went down again, and instead of catching loose soil, struck something that gave a bright, almost musical note. The noise was faint enough that no one else heard it, but distinctly different from the usual thump.

Hank stood up and stretched, pushing his hands into his lower back. He used the time to scan the area around him and notice where the guards were and who they had their eyes on. None of them were spying him just then, so he reached down and brushed what passed for soil out of his way.

Silver glinted at him in the sunlight. Without missing a beat, he leaned forward enough to make sure his shadow covered the reflected glare. He dropped his shovel to the ground and picked it up as quickly as he could while catching the metal in his free hand. Experienced fingers told him the metal he’d glimpsed was only a small part of something larger and he closed his hand around it.

Fine links of chain and a larger metal piece that felt like it had stones imbedded into the design. Hank kept his face expressionless, but felt his heart speed up a bit at the thought of what might be in his hand. Could be nothing more than costume jewelry, but after the storms from the night before, it could have blown all the way from Europe as far as he was concerned.

He wanted to sneak a look at his find, but wasn’t sure if he dared.

Emmett Blanton let out a whoop of celebration that damn near stopped Hank’s heart. Emmett wasn’t the smartest bird in the nest, and had a way of proving it almost every day. Normally he did something to annoy the guards and get himself knocked around a little—but not too much. Emmett was practically the same thing as a pet dog around the place; enthusiastically friendly and just dumb enough to bring a smile to the day.

The problem was, whatever the thin man did, he did loudly. Emmett had a voice like a coyote stuck in a bear trap.

His laugh was a loud braying and if he was angry he sounded more like a panicked swine.

Today Emmett’s voice was the sound of a choking hyena. Hank looked in the man’s direction and saw him dancing—dancing!—in the blistering heat. Emmett’s hair fell damply down to his collar as he moved in an excited jig; his right hand held up in a fist that he pumped up and down several times.

J.D. Cotton took care of the fancy footwork. The guard stepped up and slammed the butt of his shotgun into Emmett’s stomach. The man dropped to the dirt, gasping, his mouth working with nary a sound to be heard. Cotton didn’t seem to take any pleasure in the action. He just did what he saw as his job.

“What are you going on about, Blanton?” Cotton was in a foul mood. From what Hank had overheard, the bastard had lost part of his roof in the storms the night before. Unlike Emmett, Hank managed not to smile or dance at the thought.

Emmett groaned and stood up, holding out his right hand for all to see. Cotton looked closely at is prize and let out a low whistle. A green gemstone the size of a walnut rested in his palm, glinting brightly in the sunlight.

Hank let out his own low whistle of appreciation. He’d never in his life seen an emerald anywhere near the size of the thing in Emmett’s palm.

Cotton reached out like a striking snake and tried to pluck the stone from Emmett’s hand. He failed. Emmett was not bright, but he was fast. He clutched the emerald to his chest and turned away from the guard, looking over his shoulder and frowning like some petulant kid.

“I found it! You can’t have it! It’s mine!” Emmett shook his head and backed away, his eyes wide and focused only on

Cotton. That was his mistake. The other guards fell on him like a pack of wolves, but showed a lot less mercy.

Hank stood and watched the men beat Emmett into submission, knowing all too well that if he tried to help the feeble minded man he’d get twice the same as punishment.

Cobb was smiling now, a tight little slash of sadistic pleasure. He didn’t let it show too often, but his penchant for violence was always there. Hank figured it was half the reason he was a guard, it gave his nastier tendencies a place to express themselves.

“Now, look what you did, Emmett. Time for you to go explain why you’re acting like a baby to the warden.”

Emmett shook his head, his face already swelling and one eye blackened shut, on the verge of tears. Cobb and two more guards hauled him away, while the rest of the prisoners and their keepers watched.

While all eyes were on Emmett and the guards, Hank glanced down at the treasure he himself had found, and then hastily shoved it into his pocket. The fine links of the chain were silver and the centerpiece, a medallion of the same precious metal, was studded with at least five small emeralds that were as clear and beautiful as a glass of ice water.

Hank started digging again, his skin suddenly cold. He didn’t know how the necklace had gotten there and he didn’t much care. He just knew he’d have to find a way to keep it safely hidden away until his sentence was up. A piece like that could make a man’s destiny go in all new directions.

The work went on and Hank kept digging, losing himself in the labor. If he focused on the task at hand, he could resist looking at the fortune he had sitting in his pocket.

Sweat cut lines through the dust that adhered to his skin, but in time the guards called everyone in from the field and loaded them back onto the trucks. Nearly everyone was quiet after what had happened to Emmett earlier and especially after Pritcher got his head blown off. Best to keep quiet and not draw attention to yourself.

Or maybe it’s more than that. Maybe some of these guys are so quiet because they found things in the field, too.

The thought wouldn’t leave Hank alone as he looked at the other prisoners in the truck. They weren’t just tired, they were still. Quiet and careful. The more he thought about it, he could easily believe they were hiding something. Even the guards seemed to notice, a few of them sitting straighter than usual, gripping their weapons tighter than they normally did at the end of a workday.

Guilford was as warm and welcoming as an outhouse after a flood. Home sweet home. Hank ate his meal in silence and watched the prisoners around him do the same thing. There was only one source of distraction in the camp during the meal of bread, water and what was supposed to be beef stew: Emmett kept up a litany of screams and howls from the Hole. Most times the noises he made were almost funny, but this time the poor bastard sounded so miserable that it frayed at the nerves.

The entire prison was jittery and anxious. It had been a weird couple of days. A violent couple of days.

The Hole was a miserable little cell in the ground, smaller than a root cellar and befouled by human waste that had nowhere else to go. No one ever wanted to stay in the place, which was exactly why the warden used it as a method of punishment. When the meals were done and the guards watched Hank and the rest of the prisoners head for their cells,

Emmett started begging for someone, anyone to help him get free. No one dared.

Emmett’s howling kept on until after the sun had set, and Hank did his best to adjust to the sounds. He closed his eyes and settled in on the cot provided for him and he even wrapped the thin pillow around his head in an effort to block out the noises.

Eventually he managed to drift toward sleep.

He hadn’t even begun to snore when he was jarred awake, his eyes growing wide. In the time he’d been at Guilford he had learned to accept most of the noises that came to him in the dark. Even Emmett’s howls were only part of the horrific tapestry of Guilford. But now something had changed. Hank could sense it, but it took him a moment of listening to understand what he was hearing.

Emmett didn’t sound miserable anymore. He sounded terrified. His howling had become a scream, a full scale, blood-curdling shriek. Even when the guards got nasty with him, he didn’t sound that frantic.

The guards, Hank thought. Teaching him a lesson.

He would have loved to help, if only to stop the screaming, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Not from in here.

Hank turned over on his cot, feeling the sweat of the day pull at his clothes, and let out a small grunt of disgust that helped him hide from the helplessness he felt. He clenched his teeth together and let his hand move down to his pocket, where he fingered the fine chain through the fabric, imagining a day when he would be free from Guilford and have enough money to live comfortably in a place that didn’t make him want to curl up and die.

A moment later, as sleep was about to catch him again, the screams from outside stopped and left behind a silence that was somehow even worse.

8

Gayle crawled into her bed and closed her eyes, a smile playing at her lips. She felt too excited to sleep. Her parents had talked about the dolls she’d found for what seemed like forever and then finally decided that she could keep five of them.

“It’s like an answer to a prayer, Silas. We can probably get enough to pay ourselves up to date with the bank if we’re shrewd about it.” Her mother had spoken in whispers, as if afraid that speaking any louder would frighten away their sudden fortune.

Her father had nodded his head and lit his pipe, something he only did when he felt like celebrating. Christmas and Thanksgiving were pipe days. The rest of the time he went without. They’d spoken about the antique stores until the sun was down, carefully assessing each of the figures and settling them on the sofa as if they were guests come to visit. Most of them were only visiting, but five would be hers.

Which ones? She wondered with all the solemn joy she could manage, as she closed her eyes and drifted into a restful slumber. There were so many to choose from, and each seemed more beautiful than the last. It was not long before she was dreaming of porcelain figures.

In her dream she was gathering the porcelain dolls in a rusty old wheelbarrow, carefully setting each figure into its spot before reaching for the next. That nasty scarecrow was walking beside her, one gloved hand holding on to the stake that had been driven through its chest and the other reaching for her dolls.

“They’ll do you no good,” the straw man said earnestly, as wheat straw and blood seeped from the corners of his burlap mouth. “They’ll bring you nothing but blood and pain. They’re his toys, you know, his to do with as he will.”

She opened her mouth to tell him that she did not, as a rule, speak to scarecrows and that he should be careful, because her father was nearby. But all that came from her mouth was a scraping noise.

Gayle opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling of her bedroom. Light from the moon outside was her only illumination, and the familiar walls had taken on unusual angles as the shadows hid the corners and swallowed the meager furniture.

A sound had awakened her from her unsettling dream, but she had no idea what it might have been. Gayle strained to hear any sound at all beyond the wind outside and the floorboards of the old house settling as the air cooled down to tolerable levels.

Out in the hallway beyond her door, something scraped softly at the wood. Gayle squeezed her eyes shut, wondering if a rat had managed to get stuck in the house. It happened from time to time and the nasty little creatures almost always seemed to find her room. Just last winter her father had sent her into the hallway while he took care of one of the vermin with a pitchfork. Before she could enter the room afterward, her mother had gone in with a bucket and a rag. For over a month she had stared at the clean spot on her floor as if it might suddenly attack.

But she was older now, and she had to face her fears. That was what her father said was the difference between a good farmer and everyone else. So Gail slid off of her bed and onto the floor. As quietly as she could she put her feet into her slippers and moved toward the door.

Something heavy fell to the ground in another part of the house, the impact loud enough to shake the floor beneath her slippered feet. Gayle stared at the door and tried to make herself move, but her legs didn’t want any part of the notion. The soft, scrabbling noises near her door stopped and were replaced by several light taps as something moved down the hallway.

Gayle listened, wishing she could muffle the sound of her own heart in her ears, and when she heard nothing else out of the ordinary she carefully opened her door.

There was no sign of life in the hallway and nothing moved near the banister but her own faint shadow. Gayle started down the stairs as carefully as she could, her feet testing each floorboard to see if it would creak. Light spilled across the ancient throw rug at the foot of the stairs, coming from the living room where she knew her folks liked to sit and read quietly before they retired. If the lights were on, they were likely still awake.

She almost called out to them, but hesitated instead. They’d be awfully upset if they found her awake and creeping around the house. As careful as she had been in the hallway, her trek down the stairs took longer and made less noise. Somewhere up ahead she could hear the scraping sounds again and wondered if she was right about the rats. Perhaps they were eating her dolls even now, tearing away the fabric and chewing on the finely crafted porcelain faces.

The idea finally got her to move faster, and Gayle moved across the foyer and looked into the room where her parents liked to read. Her pulse raced at the notion that anyone would hurt the beautiful figurines and she looked quickly at the couch as if to reassure herself.

She would have preferred the rats. They would at least have made sense.

Instead she saw her father on the ground, his face mashed against the wooden floor, his eyes closed and a thin line of reddish drool trickling from between his clenched teeth. Her mother lay on the couch, her legs spread farther apart than was proper for a lady, and her hands over her head, one wrist crossed over the other. Gayle’s eyes sought the source of the scratching noises. The soft clinks and tinkles of fine porcelain and glass touching hard surfaces assailed her, and she looked down to the foot of the couch where she fully expected to see a black brute of a rat feasting on the delicate dolls she’d somehow managed to bring in from the field intact.

But there were no rats.

The dolls were moving on their own, toddling closer to her father’s prone form. Her throat tightened as she watched them tentatively touching him, as if to make certain her was not merely injured but properly dead. Gayle stared for several heartbeats, saw the figure closest to her father grab hanks of his hair and tug sharply, throwing its entire body into the effort.

Her mother made a soft noise and Gayle turned just in time to see one of the larger dolls—a jester dressed in red and black, with a smile that showed what seemed to be a hundred teeth—take her mother’s hand in both arms and drag the woman’s arm upward. Fine red lines of blood trickled down from where the jester’s cold white fingers touched her mother’s skin.

Gayle screamed.

The tiny figures let out screams of their own, angry hisses and cries of warning. She ran for the stairs, her heart thundering in her chest, her eyes wide and lips pulled back in terror. As she reached the fourth step, her foot slipped and her shin scraped along the hard wooden edge, but Gayle only gasped and dragged herself up, moving as fast as she could. The sound of a hundred different porcelain feet followed her, louder and louder, closer and closer, as she ascended.

Limping, wincing with every step, Gayle used her hands on the railings to help steady and propel her upward. She reached the landing and risked a look back. The dolls swarmed up the stairs in a wave of porcelain and paint. Their tiny painted eyes stared at her and their minuscule mouths scowled and laughed and shouted streams of filth and vitriol.

Throat raw, voice cracking, Gayle shrieked as she ran. Her room was so close, but the pain in her shin was like a hammer pounding her leg. Still, she was almost at her room. She could make it. She could...

She was wrong. A brilliant lash of pain caught the meat of her calf and Gayle hissed at the sudden explosion. It was the jester, and in his hand he held her father’s whittling knife, the short blade looking more like a sword in his hands. The tip of the blade was wet with her blood.

Gayle kicked at it with her good leg catching the doll in its grinning face. The thing let out a squawk as her foot slapped against its cold ceramic smile, and it slammed into the wall. The jester shattered, and was silent. The other dolls paused when they saw what she had done. Gayle stared at the fragments of the jester’s head, surprised by the ease of the thing’s destruction.

And then it stood up again, half of its painted face caved in, and ran at her a second time, crying out in rage as it came. Fragments of the broken head spilled to the ground with every step it took.

Gayle got through the threshold into her room and slammed the door, pressing her body against the wood to add her weight to the barrier.

Her father’s whittling blade slid under the door, jabbing through her slipper and into the meat of her right foot. She jumped back, whimpering as the space under the door was darkened by the mass of the tiny figures trying to get in.

She wanted her father, her mother, anyone who could come to her and take her away from the nightmare. A figure no larger than a mouse was pushing through the gap under her door, and Gayle surveyed the darkness of her room, seeking something to use as a weapon. She dropped to the floor and frantically ran her hands over the boards until she got hold of one of her shoes. The heel was scuffed and worn, but still solid enough for her purposes. The tiny figure screamed as the first blow broke its body in half, and kept screaming until she shattered its head into fine powder. Even then the remains of it twitched and tried to move.

More of the things pushed against her door and beat at it with their hands, their bodies.

Gayle could barely breathe. Her pulse was so loud in her ears. She searched the darkness again.

Her closet!

She moved as quickly as she could and slipped into the dark cubicle, closing the door and pulling her winter coat from its hanger. Gayle shoved it against the floor and wedged the fabric into the narrow opening.

The sounds of the things were muffled now, not by one door but by two, and she allowed herself to shiver. The darkness was complete and Gayle curled herself up into a ball and pressed her body against the back wall of the closet. She rocked and whimpered under her breath as the knocking sounds continued.

How long did it last? She didn’t know. The sounds continued the same way for a long time and then the noises changed, grew louder as the porcelain nightmares finally managed to get through the door and into her room. Their feet tapped across the wood and their voices, small and faint, came drifting through the air with promises of pain and death.

Gayle made herself stay as still as she could, tears silently burning tracks on her cheeks, nose running. The air in the closet was stale and hot and she wanted her mommy more than ever before in her life. Sweat beaded on her skin and left her thirsty. Her bladder ached and she needed to pee so badly she thought she would just explode.

Then she heard her father’s voice and in a rush of hope and relief, all of those discomforts vanished.

“Daddy?” Her heart thumped so hard in her chest she thought it might break her ribs.

She heard her father’s voice a second time, angry, demanding something. The words were hard to make out, but the tone was clear.

And then she heard the other voice, a cold whisper that seemed to dry the sweat from her body and chill her feverish flesh. Whatever spoke to her father had a presence she could feel even through the layers of the house, and it made her want to run, to hide even deeper in her closet, as if that were possible.

Her father did not speak again, but he screamed. Daddy’s sounds were enough to make her cry out loud, and Gayle covered her mouth with both hands to muffle the noise of her sobs. Her eyes were wide open, but there was nothing for her to see, nothing but a darkness that seemed to swallow her and savor the taste of her trembling flesh.

Then her father’s voice was suddenly silenced.

Her mother cried out, a short, anguished wail that ended abruptly as the wall behind Gayle shook with a brutal impact. Gayle could do nothing but listen. She heard the sounds of the porcelain people moving around her room, trying to find her and then struggling against the closet door, once again striking the wood with their bodies and whatever weapons they could find.

From somewhere below she felt it move, that fearful thing, that horrid presence that had first made her parents cry and then silenced the sound of their voices.

After that the dolls quieted down enough that she could hear the sound of footsteps slowly climbing the stairs. She listened for an eternity as those steps came closer, until the door leading to her bedroom creaked open with dreadful slowness.

“What have we here? Have you found another?”

The words were spoken with care, enunciated in the tones of a foreigner trying to hide his accent. The voice that spoke them was cold; the words resonated through her body and made her head hurt.

The dolls answered, one hissed voice talking for the sum of the small army. “She is there, master, a small one, a child of these people.”

Four more steps and she could feel it, feel the hairs on the back of her neck rise as whatever lay on the other side of the door now stood just beyond it. So close. Her breath plumed with the sudden cold, and goose bumps rose on her skin.

“Yes, I can smell her.” From above she heard scratching noises, the wood protesting as something dragged across it, clawing the door.

“Are you there, child? Will you tell me your name?”

Gayle shook her head, too scared to speak. Her throat felt as if she’d swallowed half the dust in the fields, and Gayle pushed herself against the farthest wall again, and whimpered.

“Ah, well, I have other things to attend to this evening. For now, I take my pleasure from the scent of your terror. How long will you hide there, girl? It will be interesting to see. I look forward to watching your eyes while fear breaks your mind. Another time, though. I’ll let you simmer in your fear until I return.”

For a moment, she felt it hesitate. Then the thing left. She could sense its absence, just as she had its presence. Like the air before a big storm, she could feel the atmosphere change when it arrived, and now she felt it again now. She could feel it as surely as she felt the aches from the small wounds she’d earned in the night. The temperature rose almost as soon as it departed, and wherever it might have gone, it seemed to have taken the porcelain people with it, for there was only silence beyond the closet door.

Still, she stayed in the closet, afraid to move and even more afraid of what she would find when she left the darkness and sought the comfort of her parents.

9

Hank woke abruptly, blinking away the darkness of sleep, vision out of focus as he tried to make sense of the gray lightlessness of his prison cell. Not dark, really, not with the dim lights that burned forever out in the corridor of the cellblock. But night, as far as night ever went here.

The illumination flickered as though a lightning storm was passing by.

A scream rose and fell, the furious roar of a murdered man who didn’t know he was dead yet. Hank blinked and shook the fog of sleep from his head, and then he realized that it wasn’t a scream at all, but a horn blaring over and over and over again.

Red lights began to blink out in the corridor.

At last, the grogginess of sleep fell away completely and he understood that it was the fire alarm. Somewhere in the prison, a fire burned.

“Shit!” Hank snapped, jumping up. He pulled his pants and boots on as quickly as he could, wiped his hands on his dirty T-shirt, and then pressed his face against the bars, trying to get a glimpse out into the corridor.

A guard ran down the hall, muttering the Lord’s name over and over and over again, pumping a shotgun as he went. A dozen prisoners shouted to him but he did not so much as glance into any of the cells.

“We’re gonna fucking fry in here!” cried a voice from further down the block. “We’re gonna burn!”

“Maybe that’s fate,” said someone else—Haskell Prosser, he thought. “Hell’s what we deserve.”

“Speak for yourself, Prosser,” Hank snarled. He stood back and shook his head, glancing around the cell. Much as he hated it, and as much as the fear festered in his gut, the skinny little preacher fuck was probably right. They were going to roast alive.

“God damn!” Hank roared, and he banged on the bars with his fists, then laid his head on the metal.

It was cool.

He blinked, then wrapped his hand tightly around one of the bars. The metal wasn’t just cool, it was downright cold. Wherever the fire was, it was nowhere near this cellblock. That was one piece of good news, at least.

His little blast of hope was interrupted by the thunder of a shotgun further along the hallway, down the way the guard had run. It echoed, but no sound followed it.

Then, with a clatter, the lights went out. At least, the dim gray illumination disappeared, leaving only the emergency lights, the red blinking that flashed again and again, strobing the cells and the bars and the grim faces of hard men.

Something rushed back the way the guard had come, moving down the corridor so quickly that it was little more than a black shape in the flashing red light. Hank barely caught a glimpse.

There came another clatter, a bang of metal, and all of the doors on cellblock E opened at once, swinging out an inch or two. Relief flooded through Hank and he laughed softly, the uneasiness of the prior moments eclipsed by this turn of events.

“Emergency procedures!” called an inmate, triumphantly.

“They can’t just let us burn to death. Got to let us loose.” Men started to push out into the corridor, tentatively at first. Awash in that crimson light, they did look a little bit like the residents of Hell. Then they broke, like wild horses at a sudden noise, and ran for the doors that would take them into the main hall and then out into the yard.

Hank held onto the bars of his cell door and for a moment a ripple of fear went through him and he was tempted to pull the door shut, lock himself back inside. It was a wild, lunatic impulse and he had no idea where it had come from. He laughed at the foolishness of it, then turned and ran to his bunk, where he had hidden the emerald necklace he had found earlier in the day. It was warm to the touch, just as the bars had been cold.

This was his future. These jewels, the gold, they were going to give him another life, a kind of life he had never even allowed himself to imagine.

He ran out into the now empty corridor, the cell door clanging as it swung open.

“Hank,” a voice said.

Haskell Prosser was still in his cell. The door hung open a few inches but Prosser hid back in the shadows, the red light washing over him, then throwing him into darkness once again.

“What you doin’, son? Run.”

Prosser shook his head. “You try to run off, the guards’ll beat your ass. Me, I’ll wait for order to be restored, and take what comes.”

Hank shrugged. “Never been in me to just sit back, take what comes, you know? Be seeing you.”

“Maybe,” Prosser replied.

By then Hank wasn’t listening. He ran down the corridor and pushed out into the main hall. None of the doors were locked, which made sense. What the guys had said was right, the guards couldn’t just leave them all there to burn.

Those were the sorts of ordinary thoughts—sensible thoughts—that were in his mind when he emerged on the catwalk above the main hall. Then his eyes beheld the scene that unfolded below.

In the hellish strobing of the emergency lights, and with the bleating of the fire alarm filling the air, a slaughter was in progress. Bodies were strewn on the floor, some of them cut open, others with limbs torn off, bone jutting from ragged stumps. J.D. Cotton lay at the bottom of the stairs only a few feet away from Hank, his head torn so violently aside that it hung onto his neck from a flap of throat and gristle.

Blood was everywhere, pools of it gleaming black in the red light.

Screams competed with the fire alarm.

At first he thought it was the inmates that had done it, that with the cell doors open they had gone on some kind of rampage. But then he saw that some of the corpses wore prison blues, and with a blink the reality of this carnage struck him.

The guards and the cons were both being slaughtered and trying desperately to fight back, some of them side by side as they attempted to survive.

The killers had no weapons other than their hands. In the darkness they moved with a swiftness that seemed impossible, appearing in one place during this flash of red light, and another during the next. They were hideous: men and women with long, lithe bodies, and fingers that were like knives. Even in the strobing scarlet, their flesh seemed pale, tinged with a deathly green. Their mouths were stretched impossibly wide as though their jaws were unhinged and filled with gleaming yellow fangs as long as knitting needles.

But their eyes were the worst.

They were emeralds.

The monsters, the killers, whose claws and faces and needle teeth and arms were splashed with blood, who tore into prisoner and guard with equal fervor, thrusting long tongues into fresh wounds with the zeal of a whoremaster...they had emeralds for eyes, exactly like the one Emmett had found the day before. Emmett, who had screamed in agony at first in the Hole, and then later in terror, and then finally not at all. Down in the dark, alone. Poor, dead Emmett.

The gems glowed bright green, even in the weak red emergency light.

The necklace weighed Hank down like his pocket was full of rocks. He gritted his teeth and clapped his hand over the bulge it made and it still felt warm there. Frantic, he glanced down and saw that the jewels in the necklace glowed now, just like their eyes, shimmering through the fabric of his pants.

Screams resounded through the hall. He spared one last look at J.D. Cotton’s messy decapitation and then peered over the railing again, knowing he had to go back, had to hide himself, but also knowing that there was nowhere to hide. If he was like Prosser and just hid in his cell, they would come to him eventually.

The main doors had been torn off of their frames, glass shattered and steel twisted. The wire mesh was shredded. A half dozen guards had created a small phalanx off to the right of the door, and now they leveled shotguns at the monsters that came through from outside. The guns exploded with thunder, punctuating the fire alarm, and the creatures—these emerald vampires—twitched and danced with the impact. One of them was thrown backward in two pieces, completely cut in two at the middle.

As it hit the floor, the vampire’s upper body began dragging itself toward the pelvis and legs.

One of the guards saw this and turned his shotgun on himself, blowing brain and bone across the floor.

The massacre continued. There were far more prisoners and guards than there were monsters, but the emerald vampires kept coming through the door, and the men—the living—were being slaughtered, the odds changing in favor of the dead with each passing moment.

“There!” called a voice like shattering glass.

Hank looked down and saw that he’d been noticed. It had to happen. He’d been a fool to just stand there. The female had long, black hair thick and knotted with drying blood. She stared at him with those emerald eyes, pointing.

A prisoner, a huge black man he knew only as Moon, caved in the back of the vampire’s head with a metal chair.

Hank ran. He’d gotten lucky once. No way was he going to get that kind of luck again. The necklace was heavy in his pocket as he ran up to the next level, where the warden had his office and the guards had their lunchroom.

As he hit the top of the stairs and rounded a corner, someone stepped in front of him, shotgun aimed at his gut. Hank twisted even as he lunged, grabbed hold of the shotgun barrel and yanked it past him just as it went off. The bones in his hand and arm rang with the blast but he was hadn’t been hit.

The guard wasn’t anyone he recognized. Hank ripped the shotgun from his hands and cracked him in the forehead with the butt. The man went down hard and without a sound, either unconscious or dead. He didn’t slow down to find out which.

Doors slammed as he ran past. No one else came out to challenge him. Whatever members of the prison staff had been on the warden’s floor when the monsters attacked, they were hiding out, fooling themselves into thinking there was anywhere here that they might be safe from those things.

Hank was an optimist, but he wasn’t a jackass. There was no hiding from the things he’d seen downstairs. The only option was getting out, getting far enough away that either they couldn’t track him, or couldn’t be bothered.

At the end of the corridor was a window. Screams still echoed from downstairs, but any second they’d be scuttling up the stairs, and once they came around the corner back the way he’d come and got a look at him, he was dead.

He kicked the window out, shards of glass spraying out into the night and showering down into the prison yard. Shotgun clutched in one hand, he forced himself into the frame, boots crunching the glass that remained, careful not to touch the jutting fragments.

Things moved in the darkness of the yard. Several guards were out there, shooting into the night. Unearthly cries made Hank shudder, but all he could focus on was the drop below him. Half a dozen feet away from the wall below was a work shed where many of the tools they used out in the field were stored at night. There were two fences around the prison ... but the work shed was outside the inner fence. Couldn’t have the prisoners getting their hands on shovels and hoes and scythes unexpectedly.

Perfect.

He dropped, pushing off the frame with a crunch of glass, and landed on top of the shed. The shotgun shook loose from his hand as he crumbled into a roll that took him off the metal roof. With a grunt he hit the dirt and sat up quickly, checking himself over, gleeful to discover that nothing in him had broken with the impact. The shotgun had clattered to the ground a few feet away and, remarkably, had not discharged. But the sound of him landing on the metal roof had been like thunder and he was sure it would bring them running.

Hank grabbed the shotgun and looked around. He was between the two fences. To his right, the outer fence beckoned, the razor wire at the top gleaming in the moonlight, slashes like grinning mouths laughing at him in the dark, daring him to climb. But he had no other choice.

He started for the fence, and then heard the hissing behind him.

Hank spun around and saw three of them climbing the inner fence. They’d made it into the central prison yard, but now they’d heard him or smelled him, and these three had diverted from the attack on the people within and come for him. Their dagger fingers curled around the metal fence and their emerald eyes gleamed bright green in the night, staring hungrily at him as they climbed, needle teeth bared. One of them had a long, thin rivulet of drool hanging from his mouth.

That was the one he shot.

The shotgun jumped in his hands and the blast tore a hole in the thing and blew it right off of the fence. The other two didn’t even flinch, only kept climbing. Hank cocked it and fired again, but his aim was slightly off and the shot sheared the left arm off the one nearest the top.

One-handed, it did not even slow down.

And on the dirt behind them, the third one began to stir, one hand clutching the wound in its chest.

Hank felt cold inside, as though his bones were ice. He wanted to scream at them, to curse them, but it was clear they were already cursed. His words would mean nothing.

He cocked the shotgun again, but there were no more shells.

“Shit,” he whispered, staring, throat working, unable to swallow. He began to shake, but forced himself to be still.

Frantic, he spun and ran to the shed. With the butt of the shotgun he broke the lock and tore the door open. The gun clattered, useless, to his feet and he reached into the shed and grabbed the first sharp thing he set his eyes upon: a long, sharp, scythe. It felt familiar in his hands from the years he’d spent working with such a tool in the prison fields.

Without looking to see how near they were, he ran for the outer fence. Then one of them screeched at him, a terrible, bestial sound, and he could not help looking back.

The monster at the top had tried to climb over and become tangled in the barbed wire, its single arm not enough to free it. Mouth gaping sickeningly wide, needle teeth gleaming, it stared at him and thrashed in the barbed wire, desperate to reach him, to gorge itself on his blood, but only getting itself tangled even more.

The one he’d shot in the gut was still flopping around on the ground, trying to rise, but now the third reached the top of the fence. It drew the barbed wire together in one powerful hand, twined long fingers around it, and then leaped over, dropping to the ground on the other side, nothing separating it from Hank except for forty feet of parched Kansas dirt.

It ran at him, swift and graceful, eyes merciless. Hank knew he was going to die. He raised the scythe in his hands, but knew it was useless. But then the vampire faltered, slowing, and stared at him, moving more cautiously as it approached.

Confused, wracked with terror and desperation, he glanced down to see what it was staring at, and only then felt the warm weight of the necklace in his pocket. The emeralds within glowed through the fabric.

Hank tugged the necklace out and threw it into the dirt five feet in front of him.

The vampire dove for it.

He swung the scythe and its head came off with a dry crackle, like husking corn. It split when it hit the ground, and the thing’s body went down on its knees, beginning to wither and shrink even as it fell over. When he pulled the necklace from its hands, its fingers disintegrated. He stuck the necklace back in his pocket, liking its weight all the more now.

In the prison yard, the one he’d gutshot was crawling toward the inner fence, still trying to get at him. It looked like the wound in its abdomen was healing up pretty quickly now.

He figured he’d keep the scythe.

Carefully, but quickly, he climbed the outer fence. Hank twisted the blade of the scythe in the barbed wire to knot it up tight, and managed only to scrape one leg a little as he swung over, braced on the other side, pulled the scythe out and dropped to the ground.

Free.

For now.

10

In the back of the wagon, Elisa sat on the bed and sang softly to her baby, holding Jeremiah in her arms and rocking him to sleep. Her own mother would have been horrified to see her, would have told her to let her little boy cry himself to sleep, to learn to go to bed that way. But Elisa could not stand to hear Jeremiah cry.

“It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that swing. It don’t mean a thing, all you’ve got to do is sing.” Her voice was low, barely above a whisper as she cradled the baby against her. The song was incongruous, a bouncy tune that made for a strange lullaby, but it made her happy, and if she sang it quietly and a bit more slowly, tapping Jeremiah’s bottom along with the rhythm, it always put him to sleep.

“It makes no difference if it’s sweet or hot. Just keep that rhythm, give it everything you’ve got.”

A contented smile touched her lips and she glanced down at Jeremiah’s cherubic face. His eyelids fluttered as he struggled against sleep, but he was drifting away. His tiny mouth was slack, lips in a pout, and a thin line of drool ran down his chin. Her heart swelled with love and she felt almost giddy. There were times when nothing else mattered but this moment, with her baby in her arms and the tangible certainty of her love for him.

“It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing,” she said, voice dropping even lower now.

Elisa stopped rocking the baby and leaned back against the wall of the wagon. She sang under her breath, but the words didn’t mean anything to her anymore. Another few minutes and she would lay Jeremiah on the bed and go out to help Stefan clean up after dinner. Perhaps they would sit by the remaining embers of their campfire. Perhaps they would make love.

She thought she would like that. It had been too long since she had felt his hands upon her, rough and tender at the same time.

The night was hot, but a breeze whisked through the open flaps on either end of the wagon. The horses were grazing close by, but far enough away that the smell did not linger.

Elisa did not want to stay in Kansas any more. She missed the east. Truth be told, she missed the old country as well. But anywhere else would do. Anywhere but here. Kansas had a blight upon it, she thought. Stefan would not even consider leaving, however. His faith would not allow it. He was convinced that God would provide, that the Lord did not burden a man with more than he could handle.

As she held her baby close, Elisa stared around the back of the wagon at the images of Christ and of the Virgin Mother that hung from the walls and the roof. A rosary dangled at the front, just behind the opening that allowed passage from inside the wagon up to the driver’s seat. And the crucifixes...there were nearly as many as there were bottles of Romany Elixir. So many that anyone poking their head into the back of the wagon would presume that the travelers sold crosses as well as elixir. But they were not for sale. They were Stefan’s, symbols of his faith.

Elisa did not believe in God. If He existed, she was certain He cared not at all for ordinary people. Never in her life had she felt any hint of His presence. Stefan insisted that Jeremiah was proof, that the love she felt for her child was a part of God’s love, but Elisa hated that notion. She and Stefan had made love and created a child between them. Cows did the same thing, but didn’t presume God was paying them any special attention.

Her love was her own, and that was what made it precious to her.

Again her gaze swept the back of the wagon. Stefan’s gun sat propped against the inside and she shuddered to look at it, thinking of the lion they had seen that day. It seemed impossible to her, but when she thought about it, she decided it must have escaped from some traveling circus. Not that she’d heard of any such show passing through the area, but what other explanation was there?

A small snore came from the baby in her arms. She laughed softly to herself and studied Jeremiah again. With her right hand she brushed at the thickening hair on his scalp. Time to put him down, now.

“All right, my darling,” Elisa whispered. She slid off of the bed and turned, putting the baby onto the bed. There was a small cradle in the back of the wagon, but she rarely used it. She and Stefan were thin enough that there was room for Jeremiah with them, and it felt safe, having them both so close to her.

With her son snoring lightly, Elisa smoothed her skirt and went to the back of the wagon. Stefan had buried the remains of their dinner in order to keep animals away, particularly after they’d seen the lion. As she climbed out of the wagon, Elisa saw him walking back from where the horses were grazing. It was getting cold, as it so often did out on the plains at night, even when the summer days were at their warmest. The fire flickered, beginning to die, and she considered throwing some thistle onto the flames to make them last longer.

“Jeremiah’s asleep,” she told her husband.

Stefan smiled at her and reached for her. Elisa took his hand and let him pull her into an embrace. There by the fire he held her, and she thought that perhaps life on the plains was not so terrible after all, even with the storms and the traveling and the clash between her husband’s faith and his willingness to say whatever was necessary to sell his magical “elixir.” How he justified it, she did not know. It was something—like her lack of belief in the Lord—that they avoided discussing whenever possible.

He kissed her neck.

Elisa smiled and caressed his strong back.

Something rustled in the night, in the darkness above them. There were no trees, no branches for the wind to blow through, and so she thought it must be a bird. She frowned and pulled away from him, and heard a strange chittering sound.

An animal. Not a lion, certainly, but not a bird, either.

The horses whinnied and stamped their feet, raising dust in the darkness thirty feet away.

“Stefan,” she began.

But he was not looking at her. His gaze was focused past her, and Elisa turned to see what had drawn his attention. Amazed, she could say nothing at first.

A monkey sat on the ground perhaps a dozen feet from them, light and shadow from the flickering fire playing across its face. Elisa smiled, staring at it. Like the lion, she assumed it must have escaped from some traveling circus. How strange and careless that such beasts would be lost and left behind. She wondered how far they had traveled across the parched plains.

The monkey’s eyes were red. She wondered if it was sick. She took a step toward it and Stefan gripped her shoulder. “No. It could be dangerous.”

Elisa was about to laugh, to argue with him. It was only a monkey. But then the little thing hissed at him for halting her, baring its teeth. They were remarkably long and sharp.

Monstrously sharp.

And then it spread its wings.

The horses began to scream.

“Elisa, get to the—”

The baby! she thought instantly, though she was sure he was going to say wagon.

The monkey beat its wings and launched into the air, chittering wildly, the sound like a devil’s diseased laughter. It came right at her face and she raised her arms to defend herself, but Stefan stepped in front of her, reached out and grabbed hold of one of the monkey’s wings with his left hand, and its outstretched arms with his right.

Elisa spun and ran, eyes searching the darkness, the curtains of night that enveloped the wagon, for any other unwelcome beast. Wings, she thought. How could it have wings? How could such a thing be born?

And in the back of her mind, she thought it just another shard of proof that God did not exist.

One of the horses had broken its tether. It galloped by, hooves pounding the dirt. Dark shapes clung to its hide, wings spread, claws tearing at the horse’s flesh. Even as she ran, she glanced over and saw one of the monkeys open its jaws impossibly wide and sink those monstrous fangs into the horse’s throat...then it drew back with a powerful lurch and the flesh was ripped noisily open. Blood gushed out onto the dry, thirsty earth, splattering the winged monkey.

The horse staggered and fell. The two little monsters rode it down and began to feast.

Elisa threw herself through the flaps at the back of the wagon. The rifle fell over with a clatter and she grabbed it in surprise and relief. On the bed, Jeremiah had begun to stir, arms and legs moving, one hand pawing at his own face. His eyes scrunched tightly closed and then his mouth opened and he began to wail.

“No, baby. Hush, now,” she said, her mind painting the most hideous pictures imaginable. How many of those things were out there in the dark?

Even as the thought went through her mind she heard the flutter of wings and something heavy landed on top of the wagon.

Outside, Stefan screamed her name.

“No,” Elisa whispered. Her skin was flushed, her pulse skipping, pounding at her temples. For a moment she just stood there, shaking, as the baby cried and once more her husband called out her name.

Then she was moving. Elisa scrambled to the bed and scooped Jeremiah up in her arms. He stopped wailing for a moment as he tried to nuzzle her breast, but denied that comfort, he began to cry again. She went to the back of the wagon, rifle in hand. Somehow she managed to cock the gun even as she held Jeremiah—no different in its way than trying to cook with him in her arms, which she had done a hundred times.

The weight up on top of the wagon’s roof shifted. The wood creaked. Then the whole thing shook as the monkey leaped away, the flutter of wings reaching her.

Through the gap at the back of the wagon, she saw it flying away. Toward the fire. Toward her husband.

Stefan was grappling with the monkey. One of its wings was broken, and he held it and twisted, but the thing had gotten the better of him. The firelight danced over them and the monkey bared its fangs, and for the first time, she understood what they were. In the old country they had many names, but here they were called vampires.

Impossible things.

As she climbed out of the back of the wagon she heard the other horse let out a final scream. In her mind’s eyes she pictured it being brought down like the first. Her baby shrieked in her arms and she knew that she had to protect him, no matter what.

Only she could not do that. How could she hold him and fire the rifle? How could she reload once she had fired?

Stefan. She needed her husband.

He roared, trying to beat the first of the winged demons away from him, but then the second was upon him. Its claws raked his flesh, tearing his shirt and the skin beneath.

Elisa screamed his name and dropped to the ground. Jeremiah squalled and beat his hands and feet at her, but she set him down between her knees, shielding him just in case something else should come for them.

She leveled the rifle just as Stefan had taught her, and she fired.

The first monkey was knocked aside by the bullet, its chest bursting open in a spray of blood and bone. The shot took off one of Stefan’s fingers and he screamed, even as the second monkey beat its wings so fiercely that it lifted him off his feet, carried him several feet, and then drove him down to the ground, chittering that gleeful devil’s laugh all the while, claws flashing, digging in.

The one Elisa had shot stood up and turned to glare at her, eyes gleaming red in the night, hissing. Even as she watched, the bleeding stopped and its wound began to close.

“No,” she tried to whisper, shaking her head.

All she felt was cold, now, as though ice had begun to form around her. Except at her knees, where Jeremiah squirmed. He was all that mattered now.

From Stefan there came another scream and when she glanced over she saw the winged demon stripping the flesh from his face. A keening wail filled the air and at first she thought it was her baby.

Then she realized it was her own voice.

Elisa scooped Jeremiah up and staggered back toward the wagon. Things flitted in the night sky above her and she could not force herself to look up. The rifle was forgotten on the ground behind her, useless. The baby went quiet in her arms but she felt his heart beating rapid fire against her chest and knew it was terror that had silenced him.

She reached the wagon, pushed back the flaps, and began to climb inside.

A screech stung her ears. Claws scraped her shoulder and her arms. She felt the leathery wings of one of the monkey things against the back of her neck as it attacked. With one hand she reached up to bat it away, and only then did she realize her mistake.

It was not after her. Not yet.

The thing’s paws gripped Jeremiah’s arms and tugged him from her arms. He slipped out so easily, as though she’d barely been holding him at all. Elisa felt her heart go dead, clenching with emptiness as she spun, screaming, and reached for her child.

She grabbed her baby’s left leg. Hope sparking inside her, desperate, mind on the brink of madness and knowing only that she had to get Jeremiah back, she reached out and took hold of the other leg.

“Let him go!” she screamed, and she began to back up against the wagon, trying to pull her baby in with her.

The monkey stared at her with red eyes and snarled. It dug its claws into the baby’s arms and beat its wings, pulling at him. The skin of his arms tore and blood began to run like tears down over his body. Jeremiah shook, wracked with pain and gasping for air, but so overwhelmed he was unable to cry or shriek.

The monkey laughed.

“No!” Elisa cried, and she pulled, beyond all reason now. The thing hissed, fangs bared, and beat its wings harder, tugging at Jeremiah again. The baby’s left leg twisted in Elisa’s hand and she heard the bone snap like dry wood.

Horrified at what she had done, she loosened her grip, just for a moment. The monkey pulled him from her and then it was flying up, up into the darkness, cloaked in blackest night, only the pale skin of her baby visible for a moment, until Jeremiah, too, was lost in the dark sky.

Numb, she stared after him—

—until that terrible, devil laugh, that chittering, came once more, all too close. Elisa looked up and saw three of them moving toward her now, all splashed with blood from the horses and from her husband. A fourth remained on Stefan’s corpse, nuzzling his throat, face painted with his gore. Slowly, the others moved toward her.

Elisa had nowhere else to go. She climbed into the wagon and sat on the bed, realizing only when she glanced at her hands that her hands and face and clothes were sprinkled with her baby’s blood.

She waited.

Wings fluttered. Things thumped on the roof. Red eyes gleamed as they watched her from the openings at the front and back of the wagon.

But they would not enter.

For long, long minutes she thought they were only tormenting her. Then the wind blew and Stefan’s rosary swung in the breeze and her eyes focused on all of the crucifixes inside the wagon. Her mind went back to the legends of the old country, and she understood.

Elisa had no faith. She had never believed in God, or the Devil.

It was Stefan’s faith that had saved her.

If she could wait, they would give up and leave her in time, or morning would come and they would retreat from the sun. If madness did not claim her first.

Shaking, she reached out and took the nearest crucifix from the wall, a tiny thing carved of ivory. Her fingers traced the Christ figure, imbued with her husband’s belief, his certainty. Stefan had bought this cross for her when Jeremiah had been born, so that God could watch over her baby.

God, she thought, jaw tight. Tears slid down her cheeks and sobs wracked her body. The sound of her baby’s bone snapping was still in her ears, the feeling of him still warm against her, the smell of his blood all over her.

He existed, after all, the Lord did. But He was a demon in His own right.

She held the cross in her hands and she rocked on the bed, refusing to look at the red eyes glowing in the darkness outside. Elisa hummed softly to herself, and waited for morning.

“It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that swing.”

11

The need to pee got the best of Gayle. Despite her desire to hide away in the closet forever, she left the safety of the darkness. The bedroom was empty, devoid of dolls and whatever it was that had scratched at her door. Her bed was a mess and her clothes were scattered all over the floor. For a second she thought how upset her mother would be and then she closed her eyes and swallowed hard, remembering the sound of her mother’s scream and the sudden impact that had shook the floor beneath her.

Gayle closed her closet door and looked more closely at the wood in the moonlight. Whatever had been whispering to her had scraped thick gouges into the door. She stepped back and gasped when she saw that her name had been carved there.

She left her bedroom, walking as softly as she could, her heart beating far too fast. A few small signs of her flight from the porcelain monsters remained in the hall, fragments of colored dust and a small piece that clearly showed an ear.

Gayle managed to make it down the stairs without falling, but her body trembled with every step. Her parents were down there. She’d seen them and had thought for sure they were dead when she came across their bodies. But she had heard their voices after that, when she was hiding in the closet, and so now she wondered.

She had to know.

Gayle walked into the room where she had last seen her parents and found no sign of their bodies. Instead she saw the sofa upended and cast to the far wall. A deep red splotch soaked slowly into the floorboards. That’s where Daddy was... Her heart slowed down, seemed to almost freeze in her chest, and she sighed out a breath from numb lips.

Her mother had been on that sofa earlier. There was no sign of her now, but the simple floral pattern of the fabric was black and wet with blood.

Gayle ran through the house, eyes wide as she searched every room. Frantic, she called for her parents, but there came no answer. When she at last allowed herself to admit that she was utterly, completely alone, she crumbled to the ground, rocking back and forth, a soft whine escaping her throat. Tears fell from her eyes, and she tasted the salt on her lips.

It was the sound of the horses that brought her back to herself. They were agitated, and their ruckus was enough to reach her in her despair. A spark of hope ignited. The horses would carry her away from the farm, let her find help, someone to search for her folks.

Gayle shook her head to clear it and stood up, swaying slightly as she headed for the back door. She stepped out into the darkness, the moonlight pale and ghostly. The barn was a hulking shape, little more than a black silhouette in the night. She looked around, afraid that little figures might scurry from hiding, that the porcelain people would return. Then she took a deep breath to steel herself and ran for the barn.

The wind picked up and kicked grit into her eyes and mouth. She squinted and ran faster.

A voice on the wind stopped her cold.

“This is Kansas? What happened here? Where are the fields of grain? What happened to the rivers?”

It was the same voice that she had heard outside the closet, that knowing, insinuating, commanding voice. After those words the voice paused and Gayle listened until she realized that other, weaker voices answered.

The monster was here, yes, and so were all of the porcelain dolls.

Gayle craned her head and tried to hear the man’s words. Whatever the doll people said was lost to the wind, only the low chatter of their voices reached her ears.

“No, of course I don’t care,” their master said. “Everyone here is going to die. It’s just strange to find it changed so much.”

The man’s laugh was ugly and frightening and more than a bit crazy. “Then again, after all I’ve been through, becoming this, and then being spirited off to your world, who am I to say what’s strange? Monsters and witches and talking tin men...people from around here, well, their minds would just snap if they’d seen what I’ve seen. Ah, but I do miss the Emerald City.”

Then there was silence as the wind shifted, blowing from behind Gayle now and toward the barn, from which the voices issued. In the near darkness she saw him for the first time, a pale, lean man with wild hair and eyes that glittered in the darkness. He was still far away, but not so distant that she couldn’t see him tilt his head back and sniff the air like a hound before turning to look directly at her.

“Well, we have company.”

Gayle froze, breath caught in her throat.

He took two steps toward her and stopped, facing her in the moonlight. She could see his clothes, plain and outdated, but functional. She could see his face, with the broad nose and the cruel, thin lips.

“It is so nice to finally meet you, child.”

The man’s face twisted into an ugly smile and his impossibly sharp teeth glinted in the night.

“What have you done to my folks?”

Gayle barely even recognized her own voice.

“They’re here. Resting. Soon they will be back, but I can take you to them now if you’d like.”

His words dripped with false sincerity, like that awful man who’d come by in the spring promising salvation from all the evils of the world if only her father would give him money. Gayle shook her head and blinked her eyes against the sting of grit and unshed tears. He was lying. The worst part was that she wanted so very much to believe him.

“What did we ever do to you? Why did you hurt my folks?” Gayle screamed, her voice cracked and dry, even as fresh tears came and washed the dust away.

His eyes narrowed into angry slashes against the chalky backdrop of his flesh and he took another step toward her. She stepped back to compensate, to keep him away, and with a flick of his wrist he gestured toward the porcelain dolls, a silent command that set them in motion.

They rushed to attack her.

“I need them, child. The smell of their blood was maddening. You’d understand if all you’d had to feast on was the vile broth from the veins of monkeys and dwarves.”

The dolls ran across the rough ground, their feet silent in the dirt, faces gleaming in the moonlight. Gayle fled, running away from the barn, her home, and everything she knew.

“Bring her to me! Bring her alive and still warm!”

Gayle ran for her life, small legs pumping beneath her, her vision blurred and her breath hitching in her chest. The smaller dolls fell behind quickly, but several of the larger ones kept pace and began to gain on her. And far behind them all, moving with the casual grace of a natural born predator, the pale man followed.

She had almost made it to the road when one of the dolls managed to snag her foot. Her arms flew out as she fell. Her cry of fear was cut short when she hit the ground, and the wind was knocked out of her.

They came at her in a wave, tiny delicate figures and larger, stronger dolls that grabbed with cold fingers. Gayle caught her breath and screamed again, a wail of disgust and terror, as they started moving in, the impossibly animated faces grinning gleefully.

From a dozen yards away the pale man watched, nodding his satisfaction, his red eyes burning brightly against the backdrop of the moon.

12

Hank stumbled along, winded and parched, as the thick dusty air moved around him like a shroud. He gripped the scythe he had taken from the prison so tightly that his knuckles hurt. Hawley was just ahead, around the next bend. There would be help there, a little bit of sanity. He could rest, find shelter. And if anyone doubted his word and wanted to go out to the prison to check things out, well, that was up to them. But he wasn’t going back there. Not ever.

He’d been moving as quickly as he could and running almost completely on instinct as he traveled. But now as he got closer to Hawley he heard the sounds—screams in the distance, both human and otherwise—and realized that his hopes were wasted.

Nothing to do now but keep going, and pray that the next town was still untouched. Still, he had to go into Hawley. If he wanted to get out of here, he was going to need transport of some kind. So he moved toward the sounds of people screaming and dying, but he did so with great caution and a tight grip on his scythe.

He was expecting the worst, and he got it in spades. Careful, sneaking around corners and hesitating at every shadow, he moved through the town. Several times things ran past him in the night, and he knew that if they got close enough, they would be able to smell him. These were not the monsters with the emerald eyes, but other things, just as bloodthirsty, but smaller. Like children.

There were dead people everywhere he went, and most of them had not died easily. He passed the body of a woman who might once have been young and pretty. Her clothes were half torn from her body and she was covered in bite wounds, most of them small enough to have come from children. Worse still, he could see that she’d been with child and something had taken the time to tear the unborn baby from her belly. What little remained of the newly forming infant had been discarded like so much trash and left a trail of wet black dirt that ran all the way back to the expectant mother’s corpse.

Not far away from the dead woman another body lay face down. The wind hadn’t yet obscured the remains of the struggle, and Hank could see the signs on the dirt that showed the man on the ground had fought hard against what must have been an army of children.

Hank moved closer, carefully stepping over the dead woman and her almost child. She stared at him with unseeing eyes and he flinched with the shock of recognition as he looked at her face. Once upon a time she had been a sweet girl named Ellie Mae Harris, and he’d had a thing for her older sister, Susannah.

He spat his shock from his mouth along with a thin streak of phlegm. He could not think of the past or those already dead when he could still hear the sounds of people dying. Not when he himself was still alive.

Something in the distance rattled and clanked, a sound that made him think of the cell doors at the prison squeaking in protest to being moved. He heard it several more times and wondered at the odd rhythm the sound produced. He might have thought about the noise more, but he heard a shuffling in the dark behind him and turned.

They had found him.

There were seven of them, tiny little men the size of children, and each was dressed in evening finery that had seen better days. Three females were in the group, their silk clothes stained and tattered, the bottoms of their dresses so torn and frayed they looked like rats had been feasting on them. The tallest of the females was barely over three feet in height and any thought that children had been responsible for killing Ellie Mae and her unborn child was discarded when he saw the vulpine fangs in the mouths of the things coming his way. Like the freaks with the emerald eyes, these creatures were pale, except where their faces had been painted with the blood of Hawley’s citizens.

Their eyes were not the green lanterns of the ones at the prison; aside from their size these vampires looked like humans. They had human eyes, that reflected the light with a crimson gleam and somehow that made it even worse. It cemented their reality for Hank.

The first of them leaped at him, jaws wide, reaching out to grab him so that it could clamp its jaws on his face. Hank swung the scythe. Adrenaline fueled his swing and if there was a God, He was being mighty nice to Hank with his aim. The blade cut deep into the monster’s neck and damned near took its head off. One second it was a screaming little man and the next it was twitching on the ground, and Hank hoped it was dying.

He didn’t have time to feel satisfied. There were six more coming his way. One of the women dove low, toward his legs, and her fangs sank into the meat of his calf. Hank let out a yowl and kicked her with his free leg, boot striking her temple. It wasn’t enough. She bit down a second time, her cold dead tongue licking at the hole in his pants leg and the flesh underneath. Hank hit her four times with the blunt end of the scythe, unable to step back to swing the blade. She shuddered away from him with a watery sigh.

“You bitch! That’s my blood all over your face!” His vision went red and Hank stomped down on the thing as it tried to back away.

Hank grabbed another of the creatures by her thick, curly hair and held her off the ground. She flailed and snarled and spat at him until he used his weapon to hack her chest open and then her throat.

The others began to circle him.

A round, elderly male—he was having trouble thinking of it as a man, even with the neatly cropped mustache and beard—ran at his left side and as he turned to defend himself, two more of the damned things moved to his right. Hank caught the one he’d been tracking just in time to realize what a mistake he’d made. The ones on his right hit him hard, far harder than he expected from such little people, and knocked him to the ground. The trinket in his pants pocket flared with warmth even as more fangs sank into his flesh.

Hank had been working in the labor camp for months and there was little about him that could be called soft. With all of his strength he drove his right arm into the ground, shaking the biting nightmares loose. He reached up and dug his fingers into the eyes of the one at his shoulder until he felt the cold orbs burst wetly under the pressure.

The thing fell back, screeching like a banshee, and Hank spun around in the dirt to kick another that lunged for him. A third grabbed hold of him and bit his arm deeply, the child-sized hands gripping his shirtsleeve. Hank ran at the nearest building, which he’d used as cover moments before. He rammed the wall, the vampire trapped between him and the hard wood. The boards creaked and he felt his entire arm go numb. The scythe spun away from his hand in an arc and clanged to the street. It was worth it; the damned thing grunted again and let go of his wounded flesh.

As it hit the ground, Hank started to kick it, caving in its skull with the toe of his boot.

“You stay there, you little bastard!” He staggered over and grabbed the scythe, ready to hack the thing into pieces, but it was up already.

This time, though, it was moving away from him.

Hank leaned against the wall of the church and panted, covering his mouth with his hand to keep at least a little of the dust away from his lungs. He looked around, checking for the other tiny vampires, but they were gone, probably in search of other, easier prey. Even now he could hear an occasional scream coming from nearby.

There was no way he could stay in Hawley. There was nothing left in the town to stay for, and sure as hell not a chance of surviving. Hank set off again and soon found what he needed. The bicycle was ancient, designed with a massive front wheel and a much smaller one in the back. Even climbing on the thing was probably risking a broken neck, but a quick check confirmed that it was functional and he had no other option.

The wind picked up again and brought still more dust with it. Hank covered the lower half of his face with his shirt and climbed aboard his new ride. The wheels made a few light squeaks, but rode smoothly. He stood as much as he dared on the contraption and pumped his legs hard to get going properly. The scythe stayed in his right hand, pinned across the handlebars, because he refused to have to reach for a weapon with everything that had been going on. In his pocket, the necklace seemed to have cooled down a great deal. If he was right, that meant he was at least a little safer.

He turned down the road away from Hawley without much regret about never seeing the place again. He had a fortune in his pocket and if he was very, very lucky he could get something for it in another place.

The night was as hot and miserable as the day had been and the breeze from riding the bicycle was invigorating. Fingers of air cooled the sweat on his scalp and painted his hair a different color at the same time.

As he passed by a small shack on the outskirts of town, something silver flashed in the moonlight. A dark figure lunged from beside the shack. The axe swung and destroyed the front tire of the bicycle, shearing through the thin rubber and the frame it was supported by.

Hank was thrown forward, and only barely managed to turn to avoid impaling himself on the scythe, which flew from his hand and rattled as it hit the dirt road. He landed on his hands, scraping off layers of skin. His palms burned. The bicycle clattered to the ground, ruined.

The sounds came again, a squealing noise followed by a loud clank. Even as he scrambled to reach the scythe he glanced up and saw the thing that wielded the axe. The blade glinted in the dusty moonlight, well polished and well used.

Hank stared, mouth agape. The thing stood close to seven feet, a man shaped contraption with legs and arms made of cylinders that had once been connected together by rivets. Its head was capped by a pointed tin hat. In the broken joints of the monstrosity, he could see pulleys and heavy cords that slid with each motion it made.

Thick, rusting tin legs lifted with a squeal and slammed to the road with a ringing clang. The arms were segmented and almost ludicrous. Its long fingers ended in a sharpened twist of tin that was already coated with sticky redness. More pulleys and wheels ground together as each arm moved with a rattling squeak. Between those arms a wide chest of metal glinted, but something had ripped the tin open, and inside the deep cavity Hank could see a shape moving in the darkness.

The head of the tin man, above the pit of the torn chest, turned to look at him. Deep cavernous eye sockets held something inside them, human looking eyes that moved in his direction. A nose had been fused to the cylindrical head, and it actually seemed to be breathing. Below that, a mouth had been torn into a scowl by the same sort of force that had opened the metal of the chest.

The thing clanked toward him.

The tin man said, “I can’t help you, it’s taken my body from me,” in a hollow voice that rang dully into the night. “Run if you’re able.”

“What?” Hank could only stare.

A laugh came from the cavity inside the tin man’s chest. “He said ‘run if you’re able,’ and you should. Will make you taste better when I finally get to you.”

A face peered from inside the tin man and Hank looked at the ugly little vampire, like the ones in town, and felt his heart sink.

The tin man raised his axe. Hank twisted and dove to the ground, rolling in the dirt, grabbing his scythe. A hollow sobbing noise came from the head of the monster and a high-pitched cackling laugh echoed from the chest. Tiny hands pulled at cords and the tin man moved toward him with more noisy steps, his long stride eating the distance between them with ease.

Hank stood and swung his scythe, hoping to skewer the creature riding in the tin man’s chest, but one of the massive arms blocked the blow and the blade snapped.

One metallic leg rattled as it lifted and the tin man kicked Hank in his hip, staggering him. Before he could recover, one of the hands closed on his wrist and squeezed with enough force to make his bones creak. Hank let out a scream and thrashed as the mechanical man lifted him into the air.

The human eyes within the tin man’s head looked his way again and he saw the fine network of veins and muscles that still allowed it to see him. Hank felt the entire body of the thing shudder as the other arm rose, reaching for his face.

Panic took over completely and Hank thrashed his legs, kicking the torso of the contraption. Each blow let out a deep resonant bong like a bell and he wanted to scream in fear. His foot slipped into the open chest of the thing holding him and he felt his heel catch on a softer surface that gave way. The tin man’s arms went slack and he fell, hitting the dirt in a tangle of limbs.

“I’ll kill you!” the voice squeaked from inside the tin man’s chest.

Hank had no doubt he would. So instead of trying to fight again, he turned and ran, legs pumping furiously, chest tight with effort and fear.

The tin man pursued him with clanging steps, each one marking the distance that separated Hank from his death.

13

Elisa sat in the darkness and wondered how long she could weep before she had no more tears to shed. The world had gone mad and she felt as if she weren’t far behind. Stefan was dead. Jeremiah was dead. Savage little animals, monkeys like winged demons, had killed them and almost her as well, and the only thing that kept her safe was her dead husband’s faith in a God she could not bring herself to believe in.

What sort of God would allow any of this madness to happen? And yet His power had saved her.

The wind shook the canvas of the wagon that had been her home for far too long, and she thought about Stefan and his faith. Once she’d asked him how he could believe in God and still sell false promises to the desperate people around them. Stefan had smiled, his even teeth flashing in his swarthy skin and winked at her as he answered. “I do not sell false promises, my love. I sell hope.”

“How so?”

“The people here are desperate and miserable. I sell them a little alcohol to calm their nerves and I tell them that it will solve their woes. For a little while at least, they have hope again.”

That had been their last discussion on the subject. She’d have given almost anything for them to argue the matter again.

Aside from the wind there was no sound, but she was not foolish enough to trust that the silence was a promise of safety.

She would not leave the wagon until the sun had risen. By then, she knew from the old stories, she would be safe.

Physically, at least. There was no haven from the fear that sent shivers through her, or from the grief that tore her up inside.

When Elisa’s father had passed and she’d asked her mother if she was well, the woman had merely looked at her with dark, heavy eyes and said that she was hollow. She understood now what her mother had meant.

Something struck the side of the wagon and Elisa bit her lip hard to avoid screaming.

“Is there anyone in there? I need help!” shouted a voice. A man’s voice.

Fists slapped at the canvas, seeking a way inside, and Elisa rose from her crouched position and moved carefully to the entrance at the back of the wagon. Nothing would take her in the night, not if she had any say in the matter.

The hands slapped and clutched and felt for a way into her haven. Elisa held her breath and clenched her hands into fists. “If anyone’s in there, please help me!” The man’s voice was strained and dry. Whoever was out there sounded human, but she wasn’t foolish enough to trust that.

Elisa crouched low, ready to strike.

The rear flaps of the wagon opened and a dark shape lunged halfway into the interior. Elisa had been expecting one of the winged monkeys, with teeth bared and the blood of her loved ones smeared on the vile hands and feet. Without taking a moment to get a good look at the intruder or wonder how one of those unholy things had entered now when they had been unable to before, she struck out.

Her fist collided with nose and cheek, flesh and bone and cartilage. The man staggered back, withdrawing almost all the way out of the wagon. He spat curses, blood streaming from his nose. The knuckles of her fist throbbed from the impact but she could tell he’d felt it far more than she had.

“Lady, you have to let me in!”

Covered in sweat and dust and wearing the clothes of a prisoner, the man lunged for her wagon again. In that moment, she understood her error. The crosses had kept the evil out before. This man was human after all. Criminal or not, he was a human being, and fleeing from the things out there in the darkness. Elisa’s heart surged and she reached for him, pulling at his arm, helping him into the wagon.

As he began to haul himself into the wagon’s interior, his hand caught one of the crucifixes that Stefan had adorned the entrance with and tangled into the rosary beads.

“Listen to me, there’s some dangerous things running around out there and one of the worst is right behind me. We’ve got to hide somewhere!”

He might have said more, and she might have answered him, but before either could speak again, the man’s eyes went wide and he was jerked from behind. Something started pulling him out of the wagon.

The stranger held on desperately, his eyes as wild and frantic as a horse tethered near a raging barn fire. The tendons in his neck and shoulders stood out like cables, but his strength was not enough. She heard his scream, saw the crucifix tangled in his fingers tear loose from its anchor and watched as something almost as tall as the wagon hauled him into the darkness.

The man who’d been climbing into the wagon was not small. He was a little over average height and even through the prison garb she could see the lean muscles of his body. If she’d passed him on the street and been worried that he was dangerous, she’d have avoided him. Now, looking at the man as he struggled against the thing that had grabbed him, he looked like a child.

The thing he struggled against was some kind of metal man, an impossible thing, but it had been a night for impossible things.

The crucifix in his hand swayed and darted on its beaded necklace, but he was too busy trying to stay alive to give it much thought.

“The cross! Use the cross! They can’t abide it!”

Though the man struggled, he could not free himself from the metal man’s grasp.

Elisa wanted nothing more than to stay exactly where she was, to be safe inside her wagon and then, maybe, to wake in the morning and find everything the way it should be, with Stefan peddling his elixirs and trinkets and Jeremiah sleeping in her arms. But nothing in her world would permit her to watch a man, even a criminal, be murdered before her eyes.

She grabbed the shovel from inside the wagon and slid out. Quickly she moved toward the giant and the convict, her weapon cocked back over her right shoulder, and then charged. The shovel swung in a wide arc and whistled as it cut through the air.

The edge of the shovel blade slammed into the hollow back of the tin man and drove a dent into the metal. The noise was not as loud as she expected, but was followed almost immediately by a muffled scream from inside the thing.

Elisa swung again and again, feeling the impact from every blow as it ran up her arms and into her elbows. The mechanical thing spun toward her, letting go of the prisoner, and she saw the red eyes and bared teeth of the wicked little thing crouched inside of the metal man’s chest.

The convict fell to the ground and shook his bloodied arm, several lacerations marking where the tin fingers had scraped his flesh. He did not stay on the ground, but instead rose to his feet, looking at the cross in his hand.

Elisa danced backward as the tin man made a lunge for her, and she swatted the metallic head with the flat of her shovel, hearing the ringing noise that echoed through the head even as one of the handles on the side of the skull crumpled under the impact. From within the deep sockets of the carved tin face, something wet rolled out and struck the ground. Elisa stared in horror at the wet, ruined eye that looked up from the dust.

The tin man took advantage of her distraction, reaching out to grab her weapon, the thick fingers clutching the handle of the shovel and squeezing until the wood snapped in half just above her hands.

From somewhere deep inside of the chest she heard the thing with the red eyes screaming at her. “I’ll feast on your blood, you vicious sow!”

The prisoner moved forward then, staggering briefly before he corrected his charge and shoved his hand into the opened chest of the tin man. The hand held Stefan’s cross, and when it touched the thing inside, it screamed, the sound echoing eerily inside of the metal torso.

Two small hands reached out and grabbed the man’s arm, and at the same moment, the arms of the tin man went suddenly slack. The little monster’s tiny fingers clutched hard, tearing the prisoner’s shirtsleeve into shreds and drawing fine lines of blood from his exposed skin. Still the man held on, his arm shaking and his face twisted into a mask of hatred and revulsion as he held the crucifix impaled inside the monster’s chest.

Elisa moved to her left and saw the tiny vampire pinned within the tin man, its face made even more hideous as it screamed and wailed its pain out into the night. The cross was driven into its chest and where the vampire’s skin and the crucifix met the flesh had blackened and was rotting away.

The convict pushed harder, and something in the vampire’s chest broke. The little monster let out one final wail of pain and then the tin contraption around it fell backward with a groan and a dozen explosive bangs.

Elisa looked the man over, her breaths rapid and stressed. The prisoner looked at her and shook his head, at a loss for words.

She pointed to the wagon. “We’ll be safer in there,” she said softly. “There are things out in the night that should not exist.”

He nodded and moved toward the wagon. In the distance screams still carried through the darkness and prompted them both to move faster. They were not the screams of people, but of things that neither of them wanted to consider too closely.

Elisa climbed back into the wagon and the man made his way in after her and drew the opening closed before settling back against the canvas. His body twitched with exhaustion and his face was drawn down in a pained scowl. They sat across from each other and did not speak, but instead listened to the wind and the screams, each lost in their own thoughts and nightmares.

14

Thin gray cornstalks whipped at Gayle’s face as she dashed through the withered remnants of her father’s last corn crop. There would never be a harvest. Leaves stung her cheeks and the stalks broke as she ran over them. Her eyes were wide but she had no tears to cry now. Terror had overcome her so completely that she could not have wept. Her heart pounded and in her mind she could still hear the voice of the pale man with his beautiful eyes and hideous face, her parents’ blood smeared on his cheeks.

Evil. Surely, he was a demon, just the sort she had always been told about. Sometimes Gayle had doubted that such things existed, but now she knew better. Evil was real.

And it was after her.

Her breath rasped in her chest, coming too fast. She thought her lungs would explode. Her foot caught on a bent corn stalk and she stumbled, fell to one knee, and scraped her hand on a stone jutting from the dusty earth. The night was so warm and close around her that she thought it was hunting her too. And how could she escape the night?

In the moment that she pushed herself up again to run, she heard noises in the corn behind her. Low to the ground. Footsteps, running, and the snapping of leaves as she was pursued.

Gayle would not look back. She knew what was chasing her. Not the evil man, the demon, but the living dolls with their cruel, porcelain faces. He ruled them, and they would kill for him.

Kill her. Or bring her to him so that he could drink her blood, just as he had her parents’.

The field was uneven. She staggered again but kept her footing, crashing through the corn stalks. A numbness began to fill her, a terrible emptiness as she thought about the farm next door, and the one after that, and the town beyond. All of them were so far away, and she was so small. Gayle was fast for her size, for just a little girl, but not fast enough.

Behind her, the noises in the corn grew louder, and the porcelain dolls began to laugh.

“No,” Gayle said, not so much in defiance as in prayer.

Then she felt the first one grab at her leg, heard others pacing her in the corn to either side. They were upon her. Any moment they would drag her down, and then all would be lost.

“No!” Gayle said, and she stopped running.

The little girl turned, blond hair flying around her head as she spun, and stomped one foot down as if in some childish tantrum. Her shoe shattered the porcelain doll that had grabbed hold of her a moment before.

The others rushed through the corn, appearing all around her, beginning to surround her. Gayle did not wait. She screamed, more hollow inside than ever, and attacked them. She grabbed hold of the largest one she could reach and swung it at the others, shattering two of them with a single blow. Their faces cracked into pieces and the bodies collapsed.

Three tiny ones came at her feet, one of them carrying a knife from her mother’s kitchen. Gayle kicked them with all her strength, one, two, three. The first two shattered on contact, but the third shifted slightly and grabbed hold of her leg. Its fingers pushed through the skin on her leg and she cried out in pain.

Then they were upon her, cruel, doll faces enjoying her terror, claws sinking into her flesh. The porcelain people got underfoot and tripped her. Gayle fell, screaming once more as they rode her to the ground, a swarm of them now flowing from the corn field, covering her, holding her down.

They were laughing at her.

She opened her mouth for one, final scream.

“Hush,” said a soft velvet voice, and she looked up to see the bloodsucking demon standing in the corn off to her right, just watching as they crawled all over her.

She felt like there were spiders crawling around in her brain, like she was about to go completely mad. The pale-faced man, the blood-drinker, would have her now. He would take her, and tear her open, and she would join her parents in heaven. If the demon did not destroy her soul along with her body.

The dead, damned look in its eyes made her wonder.

Gayle shrieked, thrashing against the porcelain people. Two of the dolls were thrown together, their heads shattering with the impact. She fought them, unwilling to let the evil take her without a fight.

Then, as if in answer to her cry, the night was split by a thunderous jungle roar. The doll people paused for an instant, and between them she saw a huge lion burst from the corn. It lunged from all fours, but landed on its two hind legs with its huge front paws in the air. It grabbed hold of the pale, velvet, hideous man’s shoulders, opened its massive jaws, and bit his head clean off with a crunch of bone and a wet tearing noise that made Gayle shudder.

The body collapsed and broke apart into little more than dirt, just another layer of dust in the fields of Kansas. Instantly, the porcelain people stopped moving. They fell to the ground, tumbling off of her, and simply lay there, faces expressionless and innocent as before. Just dolls again. Whatever evil influence the pale man had held over them had died with him.

At last, Gayle felt her tears coming and she could cry again.

When the lion came over and scooped her up in his arms, she did not scream or fight. He had come in on four legs, but he could walk on two, like a man, so he was no ordinary lion. But he had killed the monster, had saved her, and she had no strength left to run.

He cradled her in his arms and carried her back toward the barn. As he took her away, she could not help but look back at the still forms of the porcelain people scattered in the field behind her, unable to shake the certainty that they were not really dead, that they would come to life again, and that they would have her blood, once and for all.

Gayle wept, the lion’s soft, musky fur absorbing the grief and moisture of her tears.

15

The night was quiet outside the wagon, the only sound the wind tugging at the flaps that hung across the back. Hank sat with his legs drawn up, almost beneath his chin. The woman, Elisa, had taken a risk by lighting several candles, but neither of them had pointed out the obvious peril involved, both from fire and from whatever horrors the light might attract.

Neither of them could abide the thought of huddling in the darkness for another moment.

The flickering candlelight gleamed off of the dozens of crucifixes that had been affixed to the walls and roof of the wagon. Others hung from chains and strings at the front and back of the wagon and swayed in the breeze that made its way through the flaps. A pair of them collided with regularity, making tinny wind chimes.

Hank stared at Elisa as she picked up a cross that had fallen to the floor. She clutched it in her hands, offered him a small, sheepish smile, and then her gaze turned once more to the rear of the wagon. She was pale and drawn, her eyes a bit wild, as though she expected another attack at any moment. Hank understood. He felt the same way. His ears were alert for the slightest sound of anything out on the road.

“We can’t stay here,” he said, his own voice startling him as he broke the silence.

Elisa turned her head slightly and watched him with birdlike wariness. “Of course we can. We must. My Stefan’s faith keeps us safe tonight.” She shook the cross at him as though to ward him off. “I know the stories well enough. My grandmother used to talk about them all the time. When I was very small, if I woke up during the night, I never dared to leave my bed until I saw the light of morning. Then it would be safe.

“In the morning we’ll be safe, and then we can leave. We’ll run far away and pray there are places where the hell that’s come to Kansas has yet to spread.”

A sadness touched Hank’s heart that was even more powerful than his fear. He shook his head, hating to have to disagree. The woman was crushingly beautiful, even with the grief and terror etched in her features. He wished he could protect her, wanted to try. But though he might be able to keep her alive, he couldn’t protect her from the anguish that had already twisted her heart, the loss of her husband and child, and the fear.

The scars were already there.

“I’m sorry, Elisa. We can’t wait until morning. Even with faith, even with whatever protection the crosses give us...we just don’t know. You saw the tin man. The monster was inside, in its heart, but I’m pretty damn certain he could’ve used the tin man to tear this wagon apart, faith or not. Point is, we don’t know what else is out there. Just because the cross was like poison to that thing, and it scared off the ones that attacked you, the...Jesus, I can’t believe I’m saying it, but the monkeys...that doesn’t mean it’ll work on all of ’em. The ones I saw, the ones with the emerald eyes—”

He could feel the warmth of the emerald in his pocket, even as he spoke of the vampires that had slaughtered everyone at the prison. Would it be better to leave it behind, to forget he’d ever found it? Could they sense it somehow, use it to follow him? Hank didn’t know. But he’d been poor enough to starve once, and poor enough to steal many times, and only a fool could have felt the gnawing of real hunger and be willing to throw away a jewel like this emerald without a fight.

“You think they’re different from the others?” Elisa asked. Her voice was small and soft, like a little girl’s, but her eyes were hard, now. She had already proven herself a fighter when it came down to it, so he wasn’t going to be fooled by the timidity she now showed.

“Could be,” Hank replied. “That’s what I’m saying. We don’t have any idea what else is out there tonight, what else the storm brought to Hawley. We can’t just sit here waiting for something to show up that isn’t afraid of the wrath of God, you see what I’m saying? Evil’s been around a long time. Could be some of it’s afraid of other gods, or no gods at all. And if they’ve got someone to be their hands for them—like that little shit did with the tin man—we’re as good as dead.

“We’ve got to find horses, darlin’. Get this wagon hooked up and get on out of here. I can’t just wait to die, and I won’t let you do it, either.”

A gust of wind rocked the wagon and the two of them froze, staring at the darkness beyond the entrance. Hank felt his pulse hammering at his temples and when the moment had passed he looked down to find that he had clutched his hands into such tight fists that his fingernails had cut small red crescents into his palms.

“Hank,” Elisa said quietly.

He looked at her. “Yeah?”

“Are we going to die?”

For several seconds he only stared at her. Then he nodded.

“Could be.”

A terrible emptiness filled her eyes. “What frightens me most is how nice that sounds. To be with Stefan and Jeremiah again...I long for that. But I know that Stefan would give his own life again and again to save mine, and so I know I must fight to live.”

She shuddered and gnawed a moment on her lower lip. Then she reached up and unhooked first one, then a second and third of the crosses that hung from the roof of the wagon. She looped them around her neck and reached out for the shotgun they had recovered from the ground outside—for all the good it would do them.

“A little more than a mile along the road, round the corner, there are two farms. If the evil has not yet reached them, there are horses there.”

Hank nodded slowly, the reality of the task before them sinking in. The idea of leaving the supposed safety of the wagon did not sit well with him at all, but his own logic compelled him.

“All right. Let’s go. We wait another minute, and I’ll change my mind. Either way it’s a risk, but I can’t just sit here and wait to die.”

Elisa offered him the shotgun but Hank waved her off. Instead he grabbed a heavy shovel that was among the few tools the traveling salesman had carried with them. He’d rather have had his scythe again, but he’d lost that. He also found a small hatchet Stefan and Elisa had used for chopping firewood, and this he hooked through his belt.

Finally, he followed Elisa’s example and gathered crucifixes from around the wagon—careful not to leave any one surface inside without protection—and hung them around his neck. In his pocket went the thick cross he had used to kill the vampire dwarf who had controlled the tin man. Then they were both ready.

The night had been sultry and warm but now as they climbed down onto the hard packed road, weapons in hand, and stared around at the moonlit plains, the air had turned cold. Hank shivered, gooseflesh rose on his arms and made him grip the shovel harder, and he cast a single, longing glance back at the wagon. When he started off, Elisa was not beside him.

He turned to find that her own reluctant final glance would not release her. She stared at the wagon as if it were all that remained to her of the husband and child she had loved with all of her heart, as though the wagon itself were all she had left of her soul.

Hank took her by the elbow and led her away, but as they trod up the middle of the dusty road in the light of the moon, she looked even more hollow to him. Nothing but a shell now.

Morning would help, he told himself. It will take a lifetime to heal her wounds, but sunshine was the first step...if they could just last that long.

It occurred to him for the first time how much simpler it would have been for him if her husband had survived, and Elisa been torn apart by the vampires. A cold thought, but a true one. She was beautiful and vulnerable and he was the kind of man for whom kind, pretty women are a weakness of the heart.

Hank kept her three steps ahead of him as they walked and while Elisa kept her eyes on the road ahead, he was alert to anything moving in the withered fields around them. With the way the land had dried out and the storms that regularly passed through, he’d heard some men wonder aloud if maybe they’d all died and gone to hell—a hell slowly being revealed to them. He didn’t believe that for a moment, but one thing was certain, God had turned a blind eye upon Hawley, Kansas these past few years.

And tonight, more than any other.

The wind spun into dust devils that reminded him unsettlingly of miniature tornadoes, and of the storm that had come through the previous day. But nothing else stirred but the dirt and the wind that whispered across the empty fields. Three quarters of a mile from the wagon, the road turned. Even before then, he had seen a sparse handful of small trees in the distance. There was a farmhouse and a barn with a collapsed roof, but the fields were so arid—just expanses of barren, abandoned land—that they did not even pause. Elisa had said there were two farms.

As soon as Hank could see the dark silhouettes of the second farm, he and Elisa turned off the road. Out in the open, they were too visible, but at least there was room to fight if it came to that. Now, though, it was about speed. Half a dozen steps onto the dusty fields of that farm, and he began to jog. Elisa understood instinctively and followed suit. The shotgun jostled in her hands as she hurried across the rutted, blasted landscape, but he could see she was careful not to lose her footing.

His chest began to burn and he knew he needed to stop to catch his breath, but Hank kept going. The house and barn were dark, but all that mattered was the horses. If the animals were dead, he and Elisa would hurry back to the wagon. The other barn was half-collapsed, any animals inside either long since fled or been crushed. Oh, it might be worth a look, but otherwise, they had nowhere else to go except back to the wagon.

He felt like a fool. What were the odds that these things, these hunters, had left anything alive tonight? He told himself that it was possible, but only if the vampires hadn’t reached the farm yet.

In his whole life, he’d never been that lucky. But maybe tonight was the night.

Elisa paused at the edge of a small, pitiful corn field. Hank ran right past her. There was no pausing anymore. They would live or they would die. They were committed to their choice, whatever the outcome. Breath a ragged gasp, he ran between the rows, trying to make as little noise as possible. He might die tonight, but he didn’t feel like helping the monsters track him down. He could hear Elisa following him, her footfalls soft behind.

Something crunched like glass beneath his boot.

Hank staggered, nearly fell, but caught himself and came back to see what he had stepped on. Elisa had already reached the spot, and he found her staring down at the shattered remains of a porcelain doll.

“There are others,” she whispered, pointing at several of the things scattered on the ground all around, amongst the cornstalks.

Something about the expressions painted on the faces of the dolls made his skin crawl.

“Keep moving,” Hank told her.

A dark shape darted across the sky just at the edge of his vision. He turned to see it speed toward the barn, whose roof was visible even from the midst of the meager cornfield.

For just a moment he was tempted to turn back. Then Elisa touched his shoulder with a gentle hand.

“We have to hurry,” she said.

He nodded, and they started off again together, taking even great care to be quiet this time. Moments later they reached the edge of the corn crop and Hank crouched within the stalks, taking what cover he could. Elisa knelt beside him, stroking one of the many crucifixes around her neck with her left hand, and clutching the shotgun in her right.

Small, hideous figures capered in the air around the barn, a dozen things with wings and tails that swarmed like bees, alighting on the roof and tearing at its shingles, then taking flight again. Impossibly, he saw that Elisa was right. They were some kind of winged monkeys. The idea had seemed ridiculous, but the moment he saw them he realized there was no amusement to be had in their absurdity. They were vicious animals, twisted, evil things that only had the appearance of ordinary creatures. Vampires. Some kind of bizarre breed now poisoned by cruel darkness.

The barn doors were shut and somehow they must have been barred from within, for several of the monkeys began to screech and throw themselves against the door in a fury. Their voices were a mad chittering that made Hank want to claw at his ears. One of the monkeys hurled itself against the barn door with such rage and abandon that the wood splintered, but it left a smear of dark blood behind. They would destroy themselves to get into that barn.

“Horses,” Elisa whispered.

Hank nodded. The only reason the creatures would try so desperately to get into the barn was if there was something alive in there for them to kill, hot blood for them to slake their devilish thirst.

There came a loud noise from the roof, the crack of wood, and he saw that several of the creatures had managed to tear a section of shingling away, creating a hole.

“No,” he said. “God damn it, no.”

Those horses were their only chance.

He gripped the shovel in both hands, and burst from the corn. Hank let out a cry of fury and terror and ran across the hard ground toward the barn.

The little demons heard him, and their excited chatter grew even louder and more shrill. The one who’d bloodied itself and perhaps shattered its bones continued to hurl itself against the door, and two of those on the roof disappeared into the hole, but the others took flight, ragged, torn wings beating the air as they charged. Hank heard himself screaming. His fingers gripped the shovel so tightly that they hurt. The night had become even colder, as though the world itself was dying.

As the fastest of them reached him, he swung the shovel. Its blade whickered through the air. It struck the little beast with a terrible sound, cutting deep into its side beneath one arm and crashing it to the ground. He stomped on its neck as it writhed beneath the shovel, picked up the blade, and drove it right into the monkey’s face, shattering its skull and spilling gray matter out onto the ground. Its brains were writhing red maggots that began to blister and melt upon exposure to the air.

His guts churned and bile burned up the back of his throat. Hank might have vomited, but the others were on him then. Two of the monkeys collided with him, knocking him to the ground, wings beating the air. But almost the same moment that the three of them landed in a tangle of limbs and gnashing teeth and the clang of the shovel upon the ground, the monkeys screamed. He smelled their fur and flesh burning and they sprang off of him, hopping away, cross-shapes seared into them where they had come into contact with the crucifixes he wore.

A few feet away, the shotgun thundered. The shot echoed across the farm. Another of the little bloodsuckers had been flying at him, and as Elisa fired, its head exploded in a mist of blood and bone and decaying maggots.

Hank got to his feet and Elisa ran up beside him, racking another round into the shotgun’s chamber.

“We’ve got to save the horses,” she said.

Several of the monkeys had begun to retreat, seeing what had happened to the others. Hank thought it was more the crosses than the weapons, but he didn’t mind if it was a combination of the two. He plucked the hatchet from his belt and went over to where his shovel had fallen. One of the monkeys, braver than the others, lunged for his face. He swung the hatchet at the beast’s chest and it fell from the sky, wings jerking and twitching. It rolled over and over on the ground, trying to pull the hatchet out of its chest, where the blade had lodged in bone.

Elisa went to shoot it, but Hank waved her off, wanting her to conserve ammunition. He picked up the shovel and drove it down on the thing’s neck, popping the head off.

Only the wings were still twitching as they walked off, leaving it to die.

“Faith,” Elisa whispered.

When Hank looked at her, he saw that she had begun to weep.

He let out another scream and started after the vicious little beasts. The monkeys flew up toward the hole in the roof of the barn. Hank swore and they ran toward the doors. That one, mad little monster was still crashing into the door, though its head hung strangely on its shoulders and its face was caved in.

Shuddering with revulsion, Hank batted it with the blade of the shovel and then when it was down he swung the shovel down again and again and again.

Elisa aimed the shotgun at the place where the doors to the barn were joined and pulled the trigger. Bits of wood exploded from the doors and whatever had barred them was gone. They swung loose.

Hank grabbed the edge of one door and hauled it open.

Three horses whinnied and kicked at their stalls. One was down, torn open, and two of the vampires were feasting.

But the others were already dead.

“What in Hell?” Hank muttered.

A roar shook the rafters. A lion had one of the flying monkeys in its jaws and shook it back and forth like a rabid dog with a rag doll. The lion held it down with one paw and with the other, tore its head off.

There were four or five other monkeys that were already dead.

Now the lion went for the two survivors, the ones that were feasting on the fallen horse. Elisa raised the barrel of her shotgun.

“No,” said a tiny voice from the shadows beside the door, where the moonlight could not reach. “He’s a friend.”

Hank spun, shovel at the ready. But then the speaker stepped from the shadows, a little blond girl, her hair dirty and tangled but her eyes wide with innocence and sadness.

Together, the three of them watched as the lion tore apart the last of the vampires. When it was through, the massive jungle beast sat on its haunches and tried to wipe its paws as best it could on the hay scattered about.

“You’ve come for the horses,” the lion said, its growl of a voice laden with wisdom.

Hank could only stare, unable to accept, even after all he had seen, that the lion could speak.

“Yes,” Elisa said. And then she told him about the wagon. The lion raised its enormous head, mane streaked with blood and gore, and gazed at them with golden eyes. “And you will take the girl?”

Hank heard the crack in Elisa’s voice when she replied. “Of course.”

“Then we shall all go.”

16

Gayle led the horses, who were skittish as they left the barn. Her lower lip quivered a little but she pressed her mouth closed, angry with herself. Tomorrow—after the sun was up—she could cry. But not tonight.

The man with the shovel—dressed up in clothes from the prison—led the way with the pretty lady with the olive skin. Elisa carried the shotgun like it was her baby, and Gayle wondered if she knew it, and if she had a baby, where it was. The man’s name was Hank, which seemed a decent sort of name for a convict. Gayle was curious why he had been in prison and how he had gotten out, but like her tears, her questions would have to wait until morning.

Right now, quiet seemed to be important.

The little girl held the reins and the horses followed her. The woman, Elisa, had wanted them all to ride back to her wagon, but Hank had said they needed to go quietly and rest the horses until the wagon was hooked up. So they walked.

The lion followed behind the horses, but he wasn’t the reason they were skittish. It was the strangest thing, but they weren’t afraid of him at all. Gayle understood. She wasn’t afraid of the lion, either. He made her feel safe.

As they walked away from the farm, Gayle resisted the urge to look back. Her parents were dead, back there, somewhere. Yet a part of her could not imagine never seeing them again. How could that be possible? Never was an awfully long time.

So she told herself that though her parents were gone, one day she would come home, and maybe all would be well. Maybe she would wake up in her bed, with them looking over her, brows furrowed in concern, and tell her she’d had a fever and it had all been a terrible nightmare.

If she looked back, and saw the dark shapes of the barn and her house across the fields, she would know it was all just a little girl’s wishful heart. So she kept on, eyes straight ahead, and did not let herself consider that she might never go home again.

They went around the corner and down the road. Gayle saw the little wagon on the side of the road and smiled. Her horses were strong and fast. They would be out of Hawley in no time, headed east toward the dawn. If Hank and Elisa were right, and the crosses kept the monsters away, they would be safe.

But even as this thought went through her mind, Elisa glanced up into the night sky and pointed. Hank cussed nasty enough that it made Gayle flinch, then he turned to her.

“Let’s go, little girl. We’ve been spotted. Whatever that was, there’ll be others.”

They were at the wagon in another minute, and then Hank and Elisa hitched up the horses while the lion prowled in a circle around the wagon, watching for trouble. Gayle saw a body on the ground and tried not to look. She noticed that Elisa wouldn’t look at it either.

“All right. Get in, Elisa. You and the girl.”

“Gayle. My name’s Gayle.”

Hank smiled, eyes softening, and he looked at her as though it was the first time he’d seen her. “Right. Gayle. Go on, sweet. Get in the wagon. You’ll be safe in there.”

“I can drive the horses,” Elisa said. “If anything attacks us, someone ought to be fighting back. You can keep them off of me.”

Hank took a breath.

“We haven’t time for delicacy,” the lion said, sniffing at the air. “They’ll be on us soon.”

“I don’t want to be in there alone,” Gayle said.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but Elisa’s right. Let’s just get on.” Gayle swallowed hard, her throat hurting. She went to the wagon and climbed into the back. A single candle burned back there. She blew it out, knowing that they were going to be moving fast and the fire would be dangerous. It was dark in there except for the moonlight that came in through the open flaps at the rear of the wagon, and what little light came in through the small square window at the front, just behind the driver’s seat.

Though she had seen the way Hank and Elisa relied upon the crosses they wore, always touching them, holding them close, she didn’t feel any safer inside the wagon with all of those crucifixes around. She just felt more alone.

The lion stood on his hind legs and pushed his huge head into the back of the wagon. The heavy flaps draped against his mane.

“You’ll be all right, Gayle. You only need a little courage.”

She shook her head, blond hair falling across her eyes. Gayle could not prevent herself from pouting. “I don’t have any courage at all. Not at all.”

The lion growled, soft and warm. “We all do. Down inside. You just have to look for it.”

Then he withdrew.

Up on the seat at the front of the wagon, Elisa clucked her tongue and urged the horses on with a flick of the reins. The wagon started to move, wheels rolling over the rutted road. Gayle went to the front and peered out the small window, just behind Hank and Elisa. That made her feel a little better, less alone.

For more than an hour she knelt there, her muscles beginning to ache as she waited, tense, expecting something to happen. But none of the monsters came. She heard Elisa and Hank muttering to one another and their conversation was a comfortably familiar drone that reminded her of her parents.

Gayle allowed herself to feel safe.

Her eyelids grew heavy. Exhaustion and the rocking of the wagon lulled her and she became sleepy. Her head started to bob and she knew she ought to lie down in the back of the wagon, but could not bring herself to do it. Through the little window she peered between Elisa and Hank, watching the road ahead, and glanced at the dry, dead land that they passed on either side of the road. In the moonlight it was like the ghost of the living, beautiful landscape it must once have been. Even in her memory, it had been so much more alive.

“They’re back,” Hank said, his voice cold with fear.

Elisa yelled at the horses, snapped the reins, and they began to run. Things fell over in the back of the wagon. Gayle bumped her head and had to grab hold to keep from falling over.

Hank had the shotgun in his hands. He swung the barrel to the right, tracking something in the sky, and then he pulled the trigger. The explosion deafened Gayle for a few seconds, but during that time—with the pressure against her eardrums driving spikes of pain into her head—she saw one of the flying monkeys tumbling out of the sky. One of its arms had been torn off by the shotgun blast and the wing on the same side was shredded.

“It’s going to get up again,” she said, not even aware she was speaking out loud. “They get better unless you take off the head, or put wood through the heart. That’s what the lion says.”

Elisa and Hank didn’t seem to hear her. Several more of the monsters came darting down out of the night sky, moonlight gleaming on their black wings. They wouldn’t come too close, not with all the crosses the man and woman on the wagon’s seat wore. It was as though they were just trying to make Hank and Elisa angry.

“What are they doing?” Elisa cried.

Hank set the shotgun down behind him and stood in a crouch, shovel in his hands. Gayle cried out to him, afraid he would tumble overboard if the wagon hit a rut. But Hank slapped one of the monsters out of the air without losing his balance. He was strong and fast.

“They won’t attack us, so what are they bothering for?” Elisa asked, whipping the reins upon the horses again.

The horses surged forward, throwing Hank back into his seat. The shovel fell from his hands and clattered over the edge of the wagon.

“They want to slow us down,” Hank said, his voice a rumble. He turned to Elisa. “Why would they—”

All three of them heard the lion’s roar. It tore across the night sky. Gayle held her breath, terror gripping her. The lion had no crucifixes and no weapons other then his strength and his jaws. He had no safe wagon to ride within.

“No!” she cried, and she scrambled to the back of the wagon.

Careful not to put her hands or face outside, she pulled the flaps open so that she had a view of the road behind them. They were moving up a hill now and the horses were slowing a bit. The slope wasn’t much, but still there was an incline.

The lion had fallen behind. There were vampire monkeys swarming around him, slowing him down, keeping him from catching up with the wagon. He stood on his hind legs and began to tear at the monkeys, claws slashing them, stomping them into the dirt.

Then he was free, for just a moment, and he lunged forward, barreling up the hill after them. Once more he roared, and there was such sadness in it that Gayle felt her own grief anew.

“Kalidah!” the lion growled. “Leave them!”

Gayle frowned. She was about to shout back to him, ask him what he was talking about.

Then there came another jungle roar, just as loud and thunderous as the lion’s. But it was not the lion. The sound was too close, off to the right. She threw herself to one side and pulled the flap back to see at an angle, and there it was, running at the edge of the road, catching up to the wagon.

The thing was bigger than the lion. It had the head of a tiger but its body was more like an enormous, lumbering bear. In the moonlight she could see that its fur was streaked orange and black. Tiger stripes.

Kalidah. That was what the lion called it.

Gayle screamed, rigid with fear, unable even to drop the curtain so that she would not have to see it anymore. The Kalidah heard her and even as it lunged for the back of the wagon, it looked at her with its bright red eyes and bared long, bloody fangs in a terrible grin.

But she had distracted it. Her scream must have made

Elisa snap the reins, for the horses redoubled their efforts. The wagon surged forward and the Kalidah faltered. For a moment it stumbled on the road.

Then the lion was upon it.

All around the wagon she heard the screaming of the flying monkeys, but now the vicious little vampire beasts left the wagon alone, darting back to help the Kalidah. The two jungle creatures roared and got up on their hind legs. They batted at one another with their claws, slashing deep furrows into flesh, spilling blood on the dusty road.

But Gayle knew that the Kalidah was a vampire. Claws would not kill him. He could be drained of blood completely and would only continue to seek more.

Then monkeys were attacking the lion. There were only a few of them left and he leaped away from the Kalidah for a moment, snatching a monkey out of the air with his jaws, biting its head off even as he shattered a second one with one paw.

The Kalidah roared again, and it laughed with a sound that seemed to come from the night itself, from all of the arid fields and dead crops and all of the spilled blood from that long, terrible night.

Gayle tore herself away, staggering to the front of the wagon. She pushed her face up to the little window to find Elisa whipping the reins, driving the horses even harder. Hank had the shotgun aimed at the fields off to the left—the north—where a miserable little crop of thistle grew on a small farm.

“You have to stop and help him!” the girl said. “Please. He saved me. Saved all of us. It’s going to kill him.”

Hank spun and looked down at her. “We can’t stop. Look!”

He gestured with the barrel of the shotgun and she peered into the night. At first she had missed it, but now she wondered how she could not have seen the dozens of tiny lights glowing in the darkness of the thistle field, glowing sickly green and moving quickly across that dead farm toward the road, moving as though to cut off the wagon up ahead.

“Those are the things that attacked the prison,” Hank said, glancing down at the little girl. “They’ve got emeralds for eyes and their faces...their teeth...Jesus, I’d rather face any of the other things we’ve seen.”

Elisa risked a glance back.

“Gayle, we don’t even know if the crosses will frighten them.”

“But the lion,” Gayle said, pleading, staring at Elisa first and then looking to Hank. “We can’t just...you can’t leave him. You can’t just run away.”

Hank flinched as though she’d struck him. He turned on her, anger flashing in his eyes, a cruelty she would not have expected him to have.

“Now you listen to me, little girl—” he began. But then he faltered, as though he had lost track of his words. Hank looked at the emerald-eyed vampires sprinting through the darkness toward them, so fleet over the rough terrain of the thistle field, and then he looked down at his hands.

There was a green glow by his right hand. Something in his pocket had begun to shine with the same tainted green light as the eyes of the vampires that had slaughtered everyone at his prison.

Hank closed his eyes. He reached into his pocket and brought out his fist, the green light glowing between his fingers as he clutched the object in his hand.

“Damn it,” he whispered.

Then he opened his eyes again. He shoved the glowing emerald back into his pocket and made sure the hatchet was secure in his belt. His shovel was gone, but he picked up the shotgun in both hands again and turned to Elisa.

“Whatever happens, keep on going. We’ll catch up.”

“What are you talking about?” the woman said, risking a glance at him as she spurred the horses on. “What’s going to happen?”

Hank tapped the glowing gem in his pocket. “Those things, they want this. I can buy you some time.” He smiled at Gayle. “And the lion needs my help.”

Gayle smiled back.

“No! What’s wrong with you? You fool, you’re just a man. They’ll tear you apart.”

“And if they catch up to the wagon, maybe they’ll tear us all apart,” Hank said. He reached in through the window and took Gayle’s hand. He squeezed it, and she saw the pain in his eyes. Then he looked back at Elisa. “I’ve been running away my whole life. It’s time I stopped.”

Then he took his hand back and touched the crucifixes against his chest, though Gayle was never certain if he was gesturing to them, or to himself, to the courage in his own heart.

“Have a little faith,” he said.

The hill had slowed the horses down a bit, but they were still going fast. Hank braced himself and then jumped from the seat. He hit the ground and rolled with the impact, but then the wagon was hurtling past him and Gayle couldn’t see him anymore.

Elisa screamed at him, angry and terrified, but she kept on driving the horses. Gayle watched her quietly for a moment. Tears streaked Elisa’s face as she snapped the reins, driving the horses ever harder.

Gayle went to the back of the wagon again. She pulled the flaps open and peered out at the dusty road behind. Hank ran back toward where the lion and the Kalidah were tearing one another apart, roaring as though he himself were a third jungle beast, come to join the fray. Some of the monkeys screamed and flew at him, and Gayle heard the boom of the shotgun.

Off across the thistle field, the filthy green, glowing eyes of the emerald vampires turned, following Hank...pursuing whatever it was he had taken that belonged to them. They were like ghosts in the night, drifting so swiftly across the dead farmland, haunting what remained of Kansas in the dust bowl.

The wagon reached the top of the rise. The horses picked up speed as the terrain flattened out and they didn’t have to work as hard. As they crested the hill, Gayle lost sight of Hank and the lion and of the monsters that thirsted for their blood.

Slowly, Gayle made her way once more to the little window and she looked out past Elisa, now alone up on the seat. She searched the night sky and the road ahead, but there was no sign of trouble.

The road took them east, toward sunrise. With every step, the horses drew them closer to morning.

Gayle touched one of the crucifixes on the wall and said a silent prayer for her friends. It was a careful prayer, with a wish that they would be safe, not simply that she would see them again. The difference was important. After all, God could be a real son of a bitch when He wanted to.

To Gayle, it felt like the storm that had come through the day before had swept her up, that a tornado had ripped her from her home and now carried her through the dust and the darkness toward some unknown land. And after the storm, what then? She had seen rainbows, pretty colors in the sky, when a storm had been through, but she found it hard to imagine anything beautiful coming from this.

Happy endings were for storybooks.

Soon, Elisa stopped crying, and Gayle allowed herself to think that maybe they’d make it to sunrise after all. But there were hours of darkness still to go, and the dust was rising off the road, so she did not dare give in to hope. Gayle put her hope away, and would not let it out again until she could feel the warmth of the sun on her face.

Or until she saw the rainbow.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Mary Wilson, Steven Spruill,

Elizabeth Monteleone,

Jennifer Bowers, and Dannielle Romeo

Dedication

Penn & Teller

Seeing that death, a necessary end,

Will come when it will come.

Julius Caesar—William Shakespeare

THURSDAY

NIGEL

“Do you really think that shit has any effect, or is it just for show to make us all feel better? I know where I’d put my money. Those insecticide companies are all laughing hard at our expense.”

Nigel had barely noticed the man sitting beside him; he’d been too busy letting his sweat cool in the air-conditioning and enjoying the relief at having made it onto the plane. His AMEX card had taken the three-thousand-pound hit for the business-class seat with no chance in hell he could pay it back, but he’d worry about that when he got home. Maybe the data he had stored on his thumb drive would persuade Malcolm to part with the cash from the newspaper’s accounts.

Still, he was on the plane and that was all that mattered. British Airways flights out of moribund Cairo were rare now and were taking only nationals. Even with the city nigh deserted, they had far more people waiting than seats. England was supposed to be safe and everyone wanted to go home. He’d been lucky.

“I mean,” the man continued, “it’s hardly a secret that it’s gone worldwide.”

Air stewards holding masks over their faces moved up and down the aisles spraying the air with insect repellent, the smell at once acrid and comforting. Nigel looked across at his fellow passenger. Shirt with wide wet patches circling low from his armpits. Hanging jowls. A nose red as much from booze as the Egyptian sun. Twat was the word that sprung immediately to mind.

The plane’s engines thrummed louder and they jolted slightly as the pilot pushed them back off the stand.

“But then it’s all their fault, isn’t it?” The man leaned in conspiratorially across the divide, close enough for his tangy breath to assault Nigel’s senses. “You know. The blacks.”

“You think?” Nigel said, unable to stop himself despite not wanting to get drawn into five hours of inane conversation.

As soon as they were up, he intended to sleep. Hadn’t had enough of it recently, and he found something reassuring about being thirty-six thousand feet in the air above the plague and its attendant madness.

“Of course.” The jowls wobbled in affirmation. “Just like AIDS. All comes down to Africa. To the blacks.” The man must have seen some flicker of amusement in Nigel’s expression and his eyes hardened. “Only idiots think otherwise.”

“Champagne, sir?” The air hostess smiled at them, breaking the moment.

Nigel took a glass. The whole world was descending into chaos but you still got champagne on take-off. Stiff upper lip and all that. Sometimes you just had to laugh. Or cry. Or simply wonder if anyone truly sane was left in the world.

As they pulled onto the main runway, he leaned back in his chair and peered out of the window at the shimmering heat on the tarmac. To the west, a huge plume of black smoke marred the cloudless sky. Cairo was burning. Again. But his mind was still on the man beside him, and those diminishing millions of others like him. Maybe he should add some of this hysteria to his article. Malcolm would like it. Race. When you can’t blame anything else then blame the color of someone’s skin.

“They say Paris was the fault of a white man,” Nigel said after a long enough pause to allow the man beside him to get comfortable in his chair.

He kept his eyes on the endless blue sky that cut across the dusty desert horizon. Now that he was settled perhaps it was time to unsettle him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“He was Spanish. A Catholic of all things. God Squad terrorist. A crazy.”

He turned back to the man. For a second he wondered what his name was and then realized that he didn’t want to know. He couldn’t imagine anything about this man he wanted to retain.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m a journalist, so that’s always a possibility.” Nigel kept his tone light and conversational. “But not this time. I could tell you how he snuck them in, got them past the sprays and border checks, but that would spoil the story for you when it comes out in the papers. But he was white and he said he was doing it for his God. And that”—this time it was his turn to lean forward a little—“was it for Paris.”

He smiled and took a small amount of satisfaction in seeing the smug face beside him pale slightly.

“So maybe you’re right. Maybe all the sprays and DDT planes are just to make us feel better. Because you can’t stop the crazies.” He took another sip of his champagne. “So if you want to blame anyone, why don’t you look to the Almighty? Seems like everyone else is, one way or another.”

The aircraft surged forward as it built toward take-off and Nigel leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Goodbye Cairo International Airport and thank you. Something told him the next five hours would be peaceful enough.

People could speak of God or color, but he was pretty sure he had the answer tucked into his pocket. They could all read it and weep when it went to press.

Abby would. What would she make of his story? After they’d finally got a connection last night and managed a ten-minute crackling chat, he’d actually been looking forward to getting home. She’d sounded like Abby—the Abby in his head—warm and sweet and healthy. Now the first twinges of dread were kicking in. The needles. The machines. And that fistula. His stomach lurched as the plane rose but he wasn’t sure it was entirely due to the momentum. He felt the familiar tightening in his shoulder muscles and tried to force it to let go.

More champagne, that was what he needed. More champagne and then five hours of peaceful rest high above the insanity that raged below.

NAVY OPENS FIRE ON

AFRICAN  FLOTILLA

GIBRALTAR—After warnings to turn

around and return to their home ports

were ignored by the countless small

craft fleeing North Africa, the Royal

Navy received orders to open fire.

“Let them land in Spain or France,”

one officer was overheard. “They’re

not setting foot on British soil.”

(The Times of London)

ABBY

Abby stepped into the TARDIS-size vestibule of the Purr ‘n Woof and closed the outer door behind her. She’d thought it was hot out on the pavement—unseasonably so for September—but this box was an oven. She did a slow turn, inspecting the stifling air around her.

A speaker in the upper right corner crackled. “All clear?”

“Looks good,” she said.

A prolonged buzzzz and the inner door swung open. She yanked off the sunglasses and ski mask as she stepped into the air-conditioned interior.

“Oh Lord, this feels heavenly,” she said.

The proprietor, known to her only as George, stepped from behind the counter. Skinny, pale, wild hair, thick glasses, wearing a faded yellow Hawaiian shirt aswarm with giant carp. He indicated the padded stool to her left.

“Just drop your things there. How is it?”

“Outside?” She pulled off her knit wool gloves and long raincoat. “Not bad. At least not as you can tell. Hot of course, but the few out and about are dressed for winter. Other than that, just another sunny summer day of rampant paranoia in London Town.”

She saw a shadow flit across George’s features and realized she’d just passed through a security vestibule into his pet shop.

Oh, Lord, what have I said?

“You, of course,” she added quickly, “have something to protect—besides your health, I mean.”

He nodded. “Well, yes, I suppose I do. It’s not paranoia when they’re really out to get you, right?” He laughed a little at his own joke—an irritating sound. “And the more they migrate to London, the more I have to protect what I sell.”

“It’s bad, but they’ll think of something.”

He gave her a wary look. “Where’d you hear that? The telly? They only parrot what they’re fed, and they’re fed lies to keep us all from panicking. It’s all going to hell out there.”

“Just have faith,” she said. “That’s all you need.”

She wasn’t entirely unaware of the conflict between that statement and her present location and she tried to ignore how much she disliked it. Her weakness.

With a noncommittal grunt he slipped back behind the counter. “I’ve got your order ready.”

As George searched through an array of tiny boxes clustered to the side of the cash register, Abby glanced around. Purr ‘n Woof... she tried to think of a worse name for a pet shop. Surely she could. Nope. Came up blank.

But she’d been buying her aquarium supplies here for years and had grown used to it. All the aquaria stood empty now, however. Well, not empty, not really. Silken strands had replaced fish-laced water.

What has he done with the fish? she wondered. Sushi?

A couple of dogs barked in the rear kennels. Well, at least they remained among the living. But if George were Korean...

Don’t go there, Abby.

But really, if food supplies got as bad as predicted, who knew?

“Right,” George said, picking out a box and holding it up. “Here we are.”

He slid it toward her: an old ring box wrapped with fibrous tape.

She couldn’t help smiling as she leaned closer. “Are you proposing? If so, I should let you know that I’m already—” The words dried up when she saw the price printed on the front. “Four hundred? We agreed on three.”

He looked down and traced a design in the countertop with a finger. “Aside from the growing swarms in London, there’s been no word out of Brighton all day.”

Her flaring anger abruptly cooled.

“No word? What’s that mean?”

He shrugged and looked up. “Just that. The council, the police, the fire brigade—nobody’s responding.”

Her chest tightened. “That’s impossible. Somebody’s there. Somebody’s got a phone that works.”

“That’s what you’d think, wouldn’t you. So that leads to one conclusion: They’re all dead or dying.”

“But that’s impossible!”

“Really? That’s where it started here.”

“The Channel...”

They’d said the Channel was going to give protection... that the flies couldn’t cross it.

“Water didn’t stop it hopping from Tangier to Gibraltar, now did it? Not with nutcases helping it all along.”

She’d heard rumors that Mungus had loosed whole containers of flies in Brighton, straight off a ferry. They took hold there and spread north like... well, like a plague.

“So fast?”

“Faster than they’ve been letting on. You haven’t seen what’s happening? Don’t believe the TV or the radio or papers. Look around out there.”

She shook her head. “I haven’t been feeling well.”

Too true. She was overdue for her dialysis. She’d been delaying it, trying to stretch her supplies, and she felt like crap.

“No matter what they say, the flies are already here in droves.” He shook his head. “Anyway, the price is four hundred quid.”

“Because Brighton’s gone?”

“Yeah. And with the way things are going here, money’s not going to be worth anything soon anyway, so—”

She managed not to shout. Just barely. “Then why do you want more of mine?”

“Because of what money can buy now. Not going to be much to buy later on.”

She looked past him and for the first time noticed cartons of canned goods stacked against the rear wall. Hoarding. It didn’t surprise her. If she was honest she had more tins than she needed in the cupboards at home. Shopping subconsciously in preparation?

“Well, I don’t have four hundred on me.”

“I told you cash—”

“You also told me three hundred!” Now she was shouting. She stepped closer. “I’ve been a customer here a long, long time, George, and you’re pulling this bait-and-switch shite on me? What’s happened to you?”

He flinched. “Okay, okay. Three.”

She’d had the bills ready in her jeans pocket. She fished them out and pushed them across the counter, then held up the box.

“Now show me what I just bought.”

“It’s sealed for your own protection.”

That caught her off guard. “My protection?”

He rolled his eyes. “If you lose the sac, I won’t replace it.

“I’d hardly expect you to—not after trying to jack up the price.”

“Now wait just a—”

“No waiting, George.” She tapped the box. “Show me the merchandise.”

He hesitated, then heaved a dramatic sigh, found a utility knife under the counter, and went about slitting the tape with surgical precision.

As Abby watched, it occurred to her that she might make a practice of holding off her dialysis before dealing with people. The malaise made her cranky and more assertive. Any other time she’d probably have been begging him to accept a check for the extra hundred quid, the dirty—

She squelched the thought. Be forgiving. That is the way.

With the tape cut, he popped the top. Instead of a ring, a small, fluffy ball, maybe half again as big as the head of a cotton swab, nestled on the satin lining. Not white, though. More of a beige.

“That’s it then?”

“That’s it.” Pride tinged his tone. “T. duellica.”

“Tea...?”

“Tegenaria duellica.” He snapped the box shut. “Take it home, open it, place it on a plate somewhere out of the way but not in direct sunlight, and keep an eye on it. In no time you should have about fifty hatchlings.”

“God willing,” she said.

“And the best thing,” he added, “no mum around to eat the little darlings.”

She repressed a shudder. “Lovely.”

She bundled up, pocketed the box, and let George buzz her through to the outdoors. She stepped out of the makeshift vestibule and stood blinking in the sunlight. The air felt the temperature of blood, and nearly as thick and moist. London went through this type of September every few years or so, but why did this have to be one?

God’s will, she guessed.

She wondered about God’s plan for her in all this. Nigel, of course, would say there was no plan—no God, in fact—but Abby knew better. She prayed Nigel would see the light. And soon.

She looked around. Where was everybody? Lunch hour on a Thursday in London and the streets were virtually deserted. The same at church this morning. She went to mass every day and had noticed a precipitous decline in attendance over the past week. Here on the pavement the few people out and about were mummied up like her except for a homeless fellow across the road wearing dirty shorts, a dirtier T-shirt, and tattered sneakers. He was pawing through a near-empty wastebasket. Slim pickings there.

She started walking, glancing through the window of a sandwich shop as she passed. Maybe four people at the tables, but the dreadlocked take-away delivery boy was loaded down as he exited. Made sense: Let someone else risk the plague for your lunch. But how much longer would their supplies last?

She shook her head. No one knew the number of plague cases in London. The news said it had been spotty so far, yet Twitter and Facebook and the blogosphere screamed cover-up as they posted lists of the sick people they knew. Certainly the hospital where she volunteered had its fill of cases. Whatever the truth, everyone had conceded the streets to it. The plague had already won.

She turned and headed for home.

THE NEW VAMPIRES

MIAMI—They only come out at night...

No, we’re not referencing the old Edgar

Winter Group, we’re talking about the

new nocturnal lifestyle that has taken

hold in South Florida since the flies

arrived in force. It’s not a vogue, it’s

a necessity. The flies awaken and

begin their incessant buzzing as

soon as the sun clears the horizon,

filling the air until after it sets. In the

old days of South Beach, turning the

diurnal clock on its head by sleeping

all day and going out to do what

needed to be done during the dark

time might have been a lifestyle choice.

Now it has become a simple matter of

self-preservation. (Rolling Stone Daily)

ABBY

In the old days she’d have got off the tube at Angel and strolled the length of Upper Street, enjoying the buzz of the cafes and shops filled with a heady mixture of successful creative types who could afford to spend their weekday lunch times sipping coffee or wine at the many bistros and restaurants that were never short of clientele. Now, however, the pavements were empty and the boarded-up shops and eateries simply served to depress her, but she refused to let that stop her from the walk.

Three or four cafes still tried valiantly to maintain normalcy in all the hysteria, and she would always buy at least a coffee in one of them every time she came this way. Sometimes she didn’t even drink it, but would wander farther up the street and then ditch the cup in a street bin. The support was what was important. Like a Good Samaritan.

Still, she couldn’t fight the wave of bleakness that washed over her as she headed home. Even the gas lamps burning outside St. Mary’s as evening fell rarely raised her spirits these days. She would often join the dwindling congregation and pray, more for Nigel to find his faith rather than the salvation of humanity. She’d leave that for the others. God’s will was God’s will. She had to trust it.

She heard the truck before she saw it—the loud, blaring whoop-whoop of the slow siren. The familiarity of the sound did nothing to stop the sudden tightness in her stomach and nervous leap of her heart. She glanced back and saw it round the corner from a side street and head toward her up the road. The few cars and buses behind it moved swiftly to the far side and came to a halt, whereas those in front picked up their pace. She didn’t blame them. Despite her tiredness she increased her own pace. She knew an open cafe about hundred yards ahead, and wanted to get to it before the truck reached her.

The first rough hiss of the chemical spray blast made her flinch. Even though the truck was still some distance behind her the air almost immediately filled with the acrid scent. No way she wanted to be caught full on by that. The men in the truck wouldn’t pause in their work to avoid hitting rare pedestrians. The spray was supposed to protect the public, which meant the population rather than the individual. Individuals no longer seemed to matter. She found the faceless masked soldiers and the spray somehow scarier than the plague itself. They were cold. Relentless.

Her nose itched with the stink and she took a shallow breath and held it as she broke into a jog, ignoring the aches in her tired legs, and instead focusing on the doorway ahead that bounced jerkily in her vision.

The whoop-whoop grew louder and she could hear the wheels trundling at their steady pace, catching up with her. She gritted her teeth. Couldn’t the bastards see she was trying to get out of their path? Couldn’t they just slow down for a second to let her get inside? She hadn’t run for exercise—shit, she hadn’t run at all—in a long time and she struggled to find a pace. She reached inside for her faith and pushed herself faster. Of course they wouldn’t slow down. She didn’t matter to them. So what if their poisons got in her lungs? This was why He was coming for them with his vengeance. Humanity had forgotten how to care for each other.

She slammed into the Mange Tout cafe door just as the truck burst a white cloud at her. She quickly closed it, leaning on it and sucking in deep breaths. The stench permeated through the gaps and hinges, but the door was solid and the building had thick, brick walls.

“You cut that fine,” the young woman behind the counter said, her eyes focused on the street outside, her face tight and tense.

Abby didn’t answer, but once she’d got her breath back she turned to look herself. The thick white fog blocked all sight of the road and the siren sounded like the call of a lost ghost ship as the truck moved on, the pavement disappearing into nothing, like a half-formed thought.

“Could I have a double espresso please?” she said.

Her throat was raw and she wondered whether from the running or the trails of insecticides that had caught up with her. Maybe both. She didn’t want to think about it. Her body had enough problems without adding more. The government proclaimed over and over that the sprays were safe, but no one believed it. If that were the case, as one Sunday Times journalist had pointed out early on, why do the people driving the trucks, locked safely away inside, wear gas masks?

“They really think it’s taking over here, don’t they?” The coffee girl hadn’t moved toward the machine. “Like in Brighton.”

Abby said nothing. Of course the plague was taking over. How could they stop it? It was God’s work.

Eventually, the girl made two coffees and the two women sat in silence sipping them until finally the fog outside turned to mist and then dissipated into nothing.

Half an hour later, Abby was nearly home. Behind the main thoroughfares, Islington sprawled into residential housing, the occasional block of flats, and long leafy streets of large Georgian terraced houses. The quiet here disturbed her less. It didn’t seem quite so unnatural. At least she could persuade herself of that if she tried hard enough.

She shook her head as their home came into view. It had such beautiful lines but the blue netting tacked across the windows, draped across the front door and weighted down over the chimney had blurred and blunted them. It looked like a victim of renovation, or worse, repossession by the bank.

She climbed the steps, parted the netting, and quickly slipped through. In the blue mesh cocoon, she inspected the air around her. Finding it clear, she keyed open the door and darted through.

The window nets made the inside darker than it should have been, but not enough to turn on a light. She stripped down to her jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt and went to the kitchen where she followed George’s instructions: found a dinner plate, opened the ring box, positioned it in the center, then placed the whole setup on a side table they never used.

She stared at the sac, nestled on the satin, and thought, I can’t believe I’m doing this. I used to kill them, now I’m paying hundreds of pounds so I can bring them into my house.

The world had indeed turned upside down.

Knowing she couldn’t put it off any longer, she headed for the spare bedroom. They’d called it “the baby’s room” when they first moved in, but after that possibility died, it became “the office.” It also served as the dialysis room, but who wanted to call it that? Certainly not Nigel. He couldn’t even look at the machine.

She pulled the cover off the home hemodialysis unit. It stood four feet high and presented an array of screens, buttons, pumps, and meters she’d found daunting at first. Hanging the dialysate bags and plugging them in, testing the pressures and so on used to take forever, even with her nursing experience. But as time went on she became comfortable with the equipment. By now she could set it up and run it with her eyes closed.

She rolled up her left sleeve to expose the ropy fistula in her forearm. She sterilized the skin, plugged in the needles, then lay back in the recliner. Usually she read or watched TV, but the papers were playing up the plague for all it was worth, and the telly was playing it down, no doubt at the government’s insistence. Don’t want a full-scale panic now, do we? Didn’t they ever go out on the streets? So today she simply stared at Nigel’s desk against the far wall.

Nigel...gone nearly a week now, but due back tonight. She missed him—in more ways than one. A distance had grown between them. She wasn’t the woman he’d married eight years ago—no denying the truth of that—but he’d changed too. When had it started? And why? She’d looked for the answers and kept coming back to her own private plague.

Things started to change when she’d discovered she had lupus.

She wondered how different it all might have been had places been reversed—with Nigel the sick one—but since lupus preferred women ten to one over men, that would have been unlikely.

It all started with swollen legs. Being a nurse, she’d self diagnosed the problem as too much salt. But when cutting back hadn’t helped, she’d had one of the OBs she knew order some labs. Then the shock: Her kidneys were shot. A few more tests revealed lupus nephritis as the cause. She hadn’t had any other symptoms—no rashes, no aches and pains, not a hint of anything wrong. The specialists started her on immunosuppressant therapy to save what was left of her kidneys.

Nigel hadn’t handled it well. He kept wanting to blame someone or something—a polluting corporation or an environmental toxin. When Abby had informed him it was God’s doing, he’d almost exploded.

But it was. She’d known that almost immediately. Despite a strict Catholic upbringing, she’d allowed herself to become a doubter and had fallen away from the Church. It started in nursing school—exposure to all that death and disease had sparked questions as to any sort of Divine Plan. The doubts smoldered until she’d simply discarded her faith like an old skin.

But God had been watching, as He always was, and He sent her an autoimmune wake-up call.

So the lupus was her own doing and she was dealing with it as best she could. She’d returned to the Church, went to mass every day, and tried to help Nigel to see the light. The first two were easy. Bringing Nigel to the Church—or to any kind of faith, for that matter—seemed nigh impossible. But “nigh” was the important word there. For no soul was beyond redemption. She prayed for Nigel every day.

But now maybe she should pray for the world as well.

She prayed for Nigel’s safe return. He’d been sent to Africa. Well, sent really hadn’t been the case, had it. Truth was, he’d begged Mal to put him on the story. Abby hadn’t wanted him to go. Yes-yes, she knew he was an investigative journalist and all that, and he couldn’t very well turn his back on the story of the millennium, but he was journeying into the belly of the beast for “the truth” when it was right in front of him.

St. Mark had it so right: Do you have eyes but fail to see, and ears but fail to hear?

Just as God had sent her a personal wake-up call, He was now sending one to all humanity: Mene, Mene, Tekel u-Pharsin had been inscribed on the wall of the world in the form of a plague. The message was clear to Abby: Change your ways and come together to fight this, or all shall suffer my Holy Wrath.

But the world was either blind to the writing on the wall or ignoring its warning. Instead of finding fellowship and community against a common enemy, humanity was further fragmenting as people pointed fingers and locked themselves away for protection.

She felt drowsy. She never slept well when she was alone in the house. She didn’t want to nap but let her eyes close... just to rest them a little.

IS PARIS BURNING?

PORT SAINT-OUEN—Raging Muslim

rioters are rampaging on the streets of

the French capital setting fire to cars in

protest as the government tries to stop

boatloads of terrified Algerians crossing

the Mediterranean in anything that will float.

Efforts to quell this plague-driven flood

of people to France’s shores have left

the Mediterranean coast awash in North

Africans who can’t go forward or back.

(The Daily Express)

NIGEL

With the aid of several glasses of champagne, Nigel had managed to sleep at least half the way to London, which wasn’t bad given how wired he’d been when he got on the plane. But now that he’d come down the gantry and through the first wave of sprays, he was feeling tired, edgy and mildly dehydrated. Within half an hour a headache would be kicking in, the kind that sat somewhere between stress and a hangover, and by the time he got home his mood would be foul. Not the way he wanted to greet Abby.

At least flying business class he’d got to the immigration lines ahead of the rest. He forced a smile as a dour-faced woman sprayed him once again before letting him wait for the passport officer to examine his documents. Always a tricky business knowing just how friendly to act; drawing any attention to yourself either way could get you hauled off for a full body search and several hours of questioning. Heathrow was brimming with immigration men and police, all wired and hard on the lookout for potential threats.

Nigel’s reputation with the paper would count for shit if he gave the wrong man the wrong look at the wrong time. As far as the authorities were concerned, terrorists came from every potential walk of life. Despite what some people believed, you could never tell a man’s god from his appearance. These days, everyone was a potential zealot.

He took a small moment’s pleasure from seeing the man who had sat next to him now several places back in a parallel queue and looking tired and disheveled. No surprise there. When Nigel had stopped drinking and finally relaxed enough to fall asleep, the other man must have continued throughout the flight. He’d been pretty much passed out before awakened by the stewardess asking them to fasten their seatbelts. If Nigel was feeling the beginnings of a mild headache, then this bloke must be facing a belter of a hangover. It almost made Nigel feel sorry for him. Almost, but not quite. His reserves of pity had fallen low over the past few months, and he wasn’t going to waste any on an over-privileged idiot soaked in champagne and bigotry.

He made it through passport control relatively easily and, after a final seal and spray in a Plexiglas cubicle, he wandered down to the baggage hall. Restrictions had been placed on flights from several international destinations, and so Heathrow terminal 5, the hub of British Airways, was relatively quiet. Outbound flights were fewer and fewer. Almost everywhere was worse than here.

He waited at the carousel until he saw his tan bag appear and then fought his way through the small crowd to reach it. So far, not so bad. He was going to make it through the airport in less than two hours, something of a miracle these days.

He passed through the nothing-to-declare aisle and headed into the main terminal, his eyes scanning for a coffee booth. He had a good hour’s cab ride into Central London and he wasn’t going to make it without a double cappuccino and plenty of sugar. Abby drank espressos. She didn’t mess around where caffeine was concerned, and back in the early days before she got sick it became a joke between them. Everywhere they ordered, they got served each other’s drinks. Gender stereotyping in hot beverages. Imagine.

He ordered his drink and as he waited he realized just how long ago those days seemed now. Shit, they were a long time ago. They’d had a lot more sickness than health in their relationship.

He took the cup from the spotty, teenage waiter and went to the counter to add his three sugars before heading toward the black cab rank. So intent on his destination, he didn’t see the thin, suited man until he barged past Nigel and knocked his arm. The bump sent the hot liquid all over his shirt, scalding his skin beneath.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, turning viciously on the man. “Can’t you just watch where you’re going?”

He wasn’t in the mood for this. He looked down at the brown stain across the middle of his white shirt. He’d be changing in the cab then.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m truly sorry.”

Nigel looked. The man might be apologizing but his eyes darted this way and that. Along the line of wispy, thinning hair on his forehead, drops of sweat shone in the unnatural light.

“Are you okay?”

Something about the man was making the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Something off. Nigel had weathered enough shitty situations to know that when something felt badly wrong, it nearly always was.

“They’re moving,” he said with barely repressed glee.

“What?”

The man licked his lips as they parted in a sickly smile. “I can feel them! They’re moving!”

He shuffled forward, somewhere between a jog and a walk, heading toward the exit. Wet shirt and coffee forgotten, Nigel looked around for a security guard. Had anyone else noticed how odd this man was behaving, or were all the guards and cameras focused on people before they got out into the main terminal building?

He dumped his coffee in a bin and walked faster to catch the man up.

“I said, are you okay?”

He grabbed his arm—little more than skin-coated bone. The man turned and for the first time Nigel realized that maybe the thinning hair had nothing to do with age and everything to do with treatment. Now that they were close, he could almost smell the sickness under the rancid stale sweat. Cancer? Was that the cause of the tension coming off this man in waves?

“I’m sorry,” the man repeated, licking his lips. “I’m really sorry.”

He began to roll up one sleeve, and in that moment Nigel saw the flash of the golden crucifix at his neck.

“No,” Nigel said, as the pieces started to slot into place.

Paris. This was Paris all over again. The apology wasn’t for him. It was meant for everyone.

The man pulled away, his rolled sleeve now exposing the sutures beneath. Nigel lunged forward but the man ran to the doorway, stopping just at the place where the electronic doors opened. Summer heat rushed to greet them.

“Don’t you fucking dare!”

The man launched his small bag at Nigel and his feet tangled in the strap, bringing him down hard on his knees. He wasn’t going to make it.

A few people had turned to see what the fuss was, but they were like sheep, dazed and tired from traveling and eager to get on their way. The thin man fixed his gaze on Nigel as he tore at the sutures holding the flaps of his skin together.

Nigel knew what was coming.

The world slowed. Somewhere, several feet away, two security guards turned. They frowned and then their eyes widened. The older of the two reached for the holster at his side but his fingers fumbled on the button-down flap. Out of practice. The other simply froze and stared before reaching for his walkie-talkie.

“Shoot him!” Nigel said. “Stop him!”

But he knew whatever they were going to do, they’d be too late.

Behind them, through the door from the baggage reclaim, came the irritating smug fool from the plane, huffing and puffing as he pushed his overladen trolley.

You’re going to find out first hand, Nigel thought as he watched him. Goodbye Paris, hello London. And look, it’s a white guy. Take that, you twat.

“I’m so sorry,” the thin man sobbed as he flinched and ripped back the now loose skin of his inner arm. “But you’ll thank me later when He comes to you.”

Nigel met his eyes. Fear. Madness. A sudden moment of doubt maybe. It was all there. And still he tore. No going back now.

The man’s fingers were bloody from ripping out the sutures, but the exposed flesh beneath appeared covered with small dark brown ovals crammed so tightly together that they didn’t tumble out when exposed to the air. Some were still stuck to the flap of skin the man held open.

A woman standing a few feet away screamed. Nigel didn’t blame her. Anyone close enough to see knew what they were looking at. The posters littered Britain. One of the stages of development—the most likely to be smuggled stage.

Pupae. They’d been stitched under the thin man’s skin and now here they were, ready to hatch. Nigel’s eyes narrowed and his heart raced as he saw a tiny speck disengage from the pack, and then a second and a third. No, not ready to hatch—hatching.

His fellow passenger had nearly reached the doors with his trolley, one of the few people around who wasn’t still frozen in that moment of shock. His sense of self-preservation was pretty good, he’d give him that. But Nigel should have known that from the fact he’d made it onto the plane out of Cairo. The trolley trundled onward, the man now almost running, his mouth hanging open as he gasped in breath, physical exertion obviously not in his normal routine.

Nigel watched it happen almost in slow motion. One of the flies, so recently hatched, darted this way and that through the air. The passenger didn’t see it, his eyes focused on the door and getting out. His mouth hung open. The fly buzzed. The two collided.

There was an old lady who swallowed a fly, I don’t know why she swallowed a fly, perhaps she’ll die.

The trolley had stopped. The passenger was spitting and swiping at his face, strange panicked mewling sounds coming from him as he did. A gunshot finally rang out and Nigel spun round to see the thin man crumple to the floor, the hatching pupae still drifting away from their hiding place inside him.

The airport descended into screaming chaos, people rushing toward Nigel to get to the closing doors. He hauled himself to his feet. The doors weren’t just closing, someone somewhere safe at the other end of the security cameras was shutting down the airport.

Not with me in it, he thought. Not with what I have in my pocket.

He lunged forward, the passenger and the carrier momentarily forgotten and threw himself into the narrowing gap.

The doors thudded behind him and he raced to the taxi rank. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.

BBC:

This from Mumbai—reports of clouds of flies darkening the skies and mass burnings outside the city as bodies are bulldozed into piles and set ablaze to prevent them from becoming breeding grounds for more flies. We are trying to bring you video but communications from the subcontinent are sporadic at best.

AT THE LIGHT

“One man’s responsible for all this? Is that what you’re saying?” Malcolm Brown shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”

They sat in Mal’s darkened office with the door closed. Nigel had taken charge of Mal’s computer. Edmund Toulson, caricature of a publisher with his big belly, braces, and suit pants, slouched to his right. Mal, his black skin gleaming in the glow from the monitor, hunched forward on his left.

“I’m not saying that at all,” Nigel said. “All I’m saying is that Rajiv Singh designed and led the TSEE Project.”

Toulson harrumphed. “We’re dealing with some sort of mad scientist then? We can run with that, can’t we, Mal?”

Mal nodded. “We can get a marathon out of that—”

“Wait-wait-wait!” Nigel tried to keep his voice even. Had they been listening at all?”

As soon as he’d arrived in the London Light’s office, he copied his thumb drive onto his desk computer. He could have sent it by email but the contents were too sensitive to trust to the Internet. Not these days. He’d forwarded the data to Mal’s via the Light’s LAN so they could confer with Toulson in private.

“Let me go over this again. Doctor Singh was heading a project that exposed male tsetse flies to gamma rays—”

Toulson waved his hands toward the monitor. “Now why in God’s name would anyone do that?”

The after-effects of too much champagne and too little sleep had frayed Nigel’s nerves. He wanted to scream Weren’t you listening the first time through? But he maintained outer calm.

“To sterilize them. The female tsetse fly mates and stores the sperm for future use. If that sperm is sterile, she can’t fertilize any of her eggs. As a result, the tsetse fly population drops. Fewer tsetse flies mean fewer deaths from trypanosomiasis.”

When Toulson looked puzzled, Mal added, “Sleeping sickness.”

Toulson’s features morphed to an I-knew-that expression. “Right. Of course. But the plague isn’t sleeping sickness and tsetse flies aren’t the problem—at least that’s what I’m told.”

“Correct,” Nigel said. “The vector is a new species of biting fly.”

Mal leaned forward. “Nigel believes Doctor Singh’s project created a mutation in another species that became the vector fly.”

“On purpose?”

“No,” Nigel said. “Everything I’ve learned about the man says we’ve got no mad scientist scenario here.”

Toulson’s crushed look was almost comical. “You’re sure? Absolutely sure? Remember when those barmy Dutch blokes mutated the bird flu to make it even more contagious? You sure we don’t have something like that going on here?”

Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you, Nigel thought. You’d sell a lot of papers with that.

Edmund Toulson had inherited the London Light from his father, along with his father’s knack for snappy headlines. Sadly he lacked his father’s intelligence and learning. The result was a popular tabloid with more substance than most, but only because of Malcolm’s editorial acumen.

As for making the H_5N_1 avian flu airborne—Nigel saw that as the height of scientific arrogance:

Why would you do such a bloody stupid thing?

Because we can!

“Quite sure. The whole thrust of TSEE Project was humanitarian—to eradicate a disease. But when you’re out netting flies, looking for male tsetses, is it a big stretch to imagine other species finding their way into the mix and being irradiated as well? So a couple of other flies get sterilized along with the tsetses. No big deal, right? That only means fewer flies to annoy you.”

Mal was nodding. “But what if they don’t get sterilized?

Mal got it. He always got it. That was why Nigel loved him.

“Right. What if these gamma rays instead trigger a mutation that leads to a new species that spreads a plague among humanity?”

Toulson rubbed his chin. “The best of intentions with unintended consequences of the worst possible sort. We can go with that. This Singh bloke did it. We’ll—”

“Wait,” Nigel said. “We can’t demonize the man. He’s not evil.”

“Says who?” Toulson said. “We need somebody to point to, and he’s perfect. I mean really, what right did he have to go and mess with the stuff of Creation?”

Nigel made a face. He’d expect something like that from Abby.

“Stuff of Creation?”

“Yes! DNA!”

“He wasn’t messing with DNA! He was there to fry fly balls, that’s all. I have no direct proof that he caused a mutation.”

Toulson rolled his eyes. “Then why are we having this conversation?”

“Because I’m close. I’ve got a ton of circumstantial evidence.”

Mal grabbed a pen and grabbed a lined notepad. “Like?”

“The TSEE Project was discontinued three years ago. It worked beautifully in Zanzibar, which is virtually tsetse free now, but that’s an island. Sub-Saharan Africa is a whole other story. More people die of nagana there”—he glanced at Toulson—“sleeping sickness, than HIV. Singh had temporary success, but then funding ran out and he returned to London.”

“Where was he doing this sterilizing?” Mal said, pen poised.

“Salonga National Park.”

“Where’s that?” Toulson said.

“The Congo.” Mal’s eyes widened. “Jesus, Nigel, the first reported cases of the plague were in the Congo basin.”

“Right. Two and a half years ago...six months after Singh shut down.”

Toulson pounded the desktop. “Then we’ve got him! He fooled with Mother Nature and six months later the plague began. What more do you need?”

Nigel glanced at Mal. “Post hoc ergo propter hoc.” He waited for Toulson’s inevitable response and wasn’t disappointed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mal said, “It’s Latin. Means: After this, therefore because of this. It’s a famous logical fallacy in that it assumes if B follows A, then A caused B.”

Toulson shrugged. “Thunder follows lightning.”

“And pain follows a punch in the face,” Nigel said, wishing he could do just that. “And sometimes a rainstorm follows dancing around a fire. But that doesn’t mean the dance caused the rain.” He pushed on before Toulson could add another inane comment. “What I’m saying is, we can’t paint a man as a death-bringer who makes Hitler and Stalin look like pikers until we have a definite link.”

“And where do we get that link? If this bastard’s the culprit, I want the Light to break it.”

“When I was in Africa I overnighted some of the dead flies to an entomologist at the museum. I’ve asked him to see if he can determine whether or not the species is a recent mutation. If it is, we’ll have opportunity, and proximity as to both time and space. I’ll feel justified then in pointing the finger of suspicion—and it can be suspicion only—at Doctor Rajiv Singh.”

Mal and Toulson spoke almost in unison: “When will we know?”

After a quick laugh, Nigel said, “Tomorrow, I hope.”

“Can we trust him?” Toulson said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, he won’t put out a press release or anything, will he? He’ll come to us first, right?”

“Well, I’m—or rather, you’re paying his fee. And I promised him full credit for his opinion.”

Toulson slapped the desktop with both hands. “Brilliant! Key it up and have it ready to go as soon as we hear from him.” He rose and patted Nigel on the shoulder. “Good work, son.”

Nigel watched him leave, almost tripping over the janitor who was mopping the floor outside Mal’s office.

“A ‘good work’ from Toulson. Sort of like ‘good voice’ from Lou Reed.”

Mal laughed. “Get writing and have it ready.”

“It’s written. Let’s get a drink. I need a proper gin.”

AT THE WHITE HART

“Earth to Nigel.”

Nigel looked up in time to see Mal placing a gin and lime before him.

“Got you a double,” Mal added as he seated himself. “You look like you could use it.”

“Very much so. Been a little bit too much going on for one day.” He lifted his glass to clink it against Mal’s pint but stopped. “Stout?”

Mal shrugged. “They’ve run out of bitter.”

Nigel had never known the White Hart to run out of anything.

“Well, in spite of that, cheers.”

After a gulp, Mal said, “Where was your head just now? Africa? Or Heathrow?”

“Heathrow’s over and done with. Not like it was anything we didn’t expect, I was just unlucky to be there.”

“And what was that crazy thinking? The flies are already here in droves.”

Nigel pictured his feverish face. “Maybe he didn’t know that. Maybe he was committing suicide by copper. Whatever, it’s Africa that’s stuck in my head.”

Here in the White Hart, just around the corner from the Light’s offices, life seemed perfectly normal. Well, almost. The mosquito netting over the windows and doors was new, but that hadn’t seemed to thin the usual crowd of staffers from the paper. Maybe because the flies weren’t active in the dark.

“How was it? As bad as we’ve heard?”

Nigel shook his head. “No matter what you’ve heard, no matter how many hours of film you’ve seen, nothing can prepare you for the reality of it.”

“Want to talk about it?”

No, he did not. But maybe he should. Maybe he should spew some of this before he went home to Abby. He couldn’t tell her what he’d seen. At least not uncensored. Too horrible. And she would filter whatever he did tell her through her Weltanshauung of Divine Providence and then they’d fight again.

So he gave Mal the whole story.

The Democratic Republic of the Congo had been silent for weeks, just like most of the rest of sub-Saharan Africa. Other governments from Europe and the US and Russia had sent in teams and then withdrawn them without releasing information. Toulson had sent Nigel to learn what they were hiding.

He hired a private plane with an Egyptian pilot who was either crazy or desperate for cash or both, and they flew into Ndolo Airport in Kinshasa, formerly Leopoldville, on the border of the Congo and what was formerly Zaire. Everything in central Africa seemed formerly something else.

And now, it had earned another formerly: populated.

The airport was unresponsive but its beacon was still transmitting, enabling the pilot to find it with no difficulty. He landed without clearance because none was forthcoming from the empty control tower.

The pilot didn’t want to leave the plane, but Nigel dragged him into town. He wasn’t risking returning to the airport and finding him gone. Wearing hooded white contamination suits, they commandeered a car from a rental lot. They could have walked—the airport was near the heart of the city—but the air was hot as Hades and Nigel wanted to be enclosed. So they drove into the city in air-conditioned comfort.

Kinsasha, the capital of the DRC, the second largest city in Africa after Cairo, home to ten million souls, had flies everywhere—peppering the walls of all the buildings, hazing the air—but no people. The flies seemed oblivious to the car and its passengers. Perhaps because the contamination suits locked in their scent.

Where was everyone? Cattle and chickens and dogs wandered the streets, but no people. The fly bites had no effect on animals, other than a mild irritation. If a God was at work, then he’d decided that man needed to go, not the rest of the world’s fauna. Nigel couldn’t entirely blame him for that, although Mother Nature was a more likely culprit. Mother Nature and mankind working hand in hand to bring about their own destruction. If it wasn’t so terrifying, it would be comical.

At one point they spotted a human—someone immune to the plague?—who ran and hid at sight of them. Only rarely did they see any dead, signaled by an extra-thick cloud of flies.

The pilot pointed out a huge cloud beyond a stand of trees.

“What do you suppose that is?” he said, voice muffled by the air filters in his hood.

Against his better judgment, Nigel said, “Let’s find out,” and headed for the cloud.

He found a two-story building literally coated with flies, with those unable to land buzzing around it. Gut knotted, he wound his way past abandoned cars, wondering what he’d found. Halfway to the building he came upon a white stone sign. The flies left enough room to read:

REPUBLIQUE DEMOCRATIQUE DU CONGO

MINISTERE DE LA SANTE

HOSPITAL PEDIATRIQUE DE

KALEMBE - LEMBE

Aw, no. A children’s hospital.

He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, then said, “I’m going in.”

“Yaha!” the pilot cried.

“What?” Nigel knew only enough Arabic to ask for a beer or a bathroom.

The pilot stared at him. “Are you daft?”

“Most likely.”

But this was why he’d come. He jumped out of the car, taking the keys with him.

“Hey!” the pilot yelled. “I’ll cook in here!”

“I won’t be long.”

“What if something happens to you?”

“I won’t go far.”

He’d traveled only a dozen feet when the smell of death smashed him, slipping through his air filter and tickling his gag reflex. He swallowed back a surge of bile and pressed on.

Then the rotting bodies began to appear, more and more until he found them massed at the doors. All in advanced states of decay.

What had happened here?

The plague, for all its virulence, was reported to be gentle. People didn’t drop in the street. They grew progressively weaker until they took to their beds, never to rise again. Was that what happened here?

Beneath the coating of flies he made out many small bodies among the larger ones. Ailing children, brought to the hospital by their equally ailing parents, where they all died, waiting for admission to a hospital big enough for no more than a hundred beds.

Through breaks in the clouds of flies he saw the feasting maggots, which would soon mature and join the cloud. And as digestible flesh disappeared, the cloud would move, looking for greener pastures, as it were.

He turned and fled to the car, and then to the airport, and then back to Cairo.

“Jesus,” Mal murmured, his pint warming in his hand.

Nigel tossed back his gin. “Yeah. It’s the life cycle of those damn flies that’s against us. One bite is all it takes and you’ve caught the plague. Three days later, you’re dead. But if no one buries you, you become a fly factory. Each of the little bastards lays scores of eggs on the corpse. Those hatch into maggots, feed on the carrion, turn into flies, mate, lay more eggs, and on and on.”

“A geometric progression.”

“But not a simple doubling progression. Each generation progresses by a factor of a hundred. They were multiplying like crazy in the jungles and no one knew. Then they swarmed into the unsuspecting cities in a cloud and no one was prepared, no one had a chance. So more die—so many that the urban services break down and bodies are left where they drop, which only further feeds the swarm.”

“I can’t believe no one’s got a way of stopping them. Can’t we import a bunch of toads or insectivorous birds?”

“From where? Who’s going to give them up? The only real threats to flies are spiders and parasites, and these African flies don’t have any local parasites.”

“There’s got to be something.”

Nigel shook his head. “Not yet.”

Everyone thought the desert would stop them because they seemed to like a moist environment. But they followed the Nile and from there they spread everywhere, especially after the Mungus started capturing them and shipping them across the oceans.

Mal’s expression was bleak. “Then we’re fucked?”

“We thought we’d be safe because we’re an island—”

“Are we really?” Mal said with a tight smile. “I never realized.” The smile vanished. “Things exploded while you were away. When the first few Londoners came down with it, a mob charged into the hospital and dragged them out on the street where they doused them with gas and set them alight.”

Speechless, Nigel could only stare at him. When he regained his voice...

“That’s—that’s appalling! It’s not contagious! Everyone knows that.”

“Apparently not. Or if they do, they don’t believe it. Government propaganda, government conspiracy, government cover-up—take your choice. It spreads like AIDS, it spreads like flu, it’s being blown into the air and the flies are just a diversion, misdirection to keep us from learning what’s really going on.”

He supposed that was because modern medical science, with all its miracles, had yet to get a handle on the plague. Bites from the flies didn’t transmit a disease—a virus would have been easy to fight. Instead, fly saliva, even in the minutest amount, triggered an autoimmune reaction that targeted the victim’s red blood cells. The result was a fulminate hemolytic anemia that stressed nearly every organ in the body and overwhelmed the marrow’s ability to replace the dissolving red cells. Eventually death comes from hypoxia and systemic collapse—without red blood cells to carry oxygen to the organs, they fail. Transfusions give only temporary relief because the immune system attacks the new red blood cells upon arrival.

Mal said, “Blood banks have all run dry and they’re staying dry. I mean, where do you find blood donors when everyone knows they won’t have enough of their own if they’re bitten?”

Fighting a sudden wave of exhaustion—physical and spiritual—Nigel shook his head. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Wait. It gets worse. The Mungus are wandering about, and they take the opposite view: The plague is God’s retribution. Don’t fight it—accept it. And so we’ve got believers exposing themselves to the flies and going off to die and supply breeding grounds for more flies. Those who remain untouched by the plague were welcomed into the Mungu cult. Needless to say—but I’ll say it anyway—its numbers are minuscule.”

“Damn them.”

Mungu...Swahili for divine. An exclusive membership—limited to survivors of the plague. The theory was they were gifted with a natural immunity. Early members were all African. When they lived on while all around them died, the only rationale—at least as they saw it—was that God had chosen them to spread the word that the plague was His doing: divine retribution. Now plague survivors of all races called themselves Mungu.

Mal said, “I’d love to get video from Brighton.”

“I could go down.”

“They’ve shut down all of Sussex. But why? The plague’s everywhere. They’ve been lying about how far it’s spread.” Mal stared at him for a long moment, then, “Anyway, I think you’ve had enough plague for a while.”

“What?” He couldn’t believe he’d heard right.

“I’m serious. You should see yourself. You look shredded. You’ve visited hell. You need a break.”

“Mal, this is the story of the century—the bloody millennium! What could be more important?”

“A change of pace. For the sake of your sanity. There’s a missing child—”

“A child? One child? People are dying by the millions, Mal. I don’t mean to sound callous, but—”

“It’s my wife’s cousin’s little boy—he’s gone missing and the police aren’t doing shit.”

“I’m sorry for them, Mal, really I am, but—”

“There’s a story there, Nigel. I can smell it.”

Mal’s nose for stories was well known, almost infamous, but still...

“Maybe after I see if I can get into Sussex.” As he finished the last of his gin he glanced at the TV over the bar. Flames filled the screen. “Here, what’s that?”

Mal needed only a quick glance. “Berlin’s burning.”

“What?”

“The crazies do it. At night they set the residential districts alight, driving people out into the streets. When daylight comes they’ve got no homes to go to, and so the flies get them.”

Cairo had been burning. Same thing?

“Did everyone go mad while I was away?”

“Appears that way.”

Nigel rose from his seat. Really could have used another gin, but... “Hate to drink and run, but I’ve gotta get home to Abby. It’s been a week.”

“After Sussex then? You promise?”

“Sure.”

Did that sound like a promise? He hoped not.

NIGEL

Strange how his mood could shift between turning the key in the lock and closing the door behind him. He’d been looking forward to seeing Abby. They’d been fine on the phone while he was away, almost like the old days, but as soon as he felt the latch turn, so did his stomach. His shoulders tensed as the warm, familiar smell of home hit him, and by the time he’d put his suitcase down in the hall, he couldn’t fight the unease. The awkwardness.

No...tonight would be different. Tonight they’d be the old Nigel and Abby.

“I’m home,” he called out, resisting the urge simply to go quietly into the kitchen and make himself a drink and have a few more minutes alone.

All shit and he knew it. He loved her. He’d always loved her. But that didn’t mean he found it easy facing her. Not these days, anyway. Bad enough when she’d got sick, but worse now. Sickness outside, and sickness inside. Sometimes he felt so surrounded by it that death seemed to be crawling on his skin trying to find a way in. It all made him feel like a selfish bastard—shit, he was a selfish bastard—and then that made him resentful for feeling that way.

Marriage, he thought, as he heard the light tread of her steps coming down the stairs, was never the bed of roses the movies made it out to be. These days, no matter how flirtatious they got when they were apart, it was barely a bed at all.

“Hey,” Abby said as she landed in the hall. Although only in jeans and a T-shirt—long sleeved, thank you—she was wearing pink lipstick and her hair looked freshly washed and dried, falling loose around her shoulders. “Welcome home, traveler.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled. Warm perfume wafted over him, mixed with the soft scent of her he knew so well. It very nearly disguised the underlying hint of something other. The unwell, the thing he found so hard to fight.

“Hey.”

He squeezed her back, wishing he could hug his shame away, but instead he had to fight the urge to pull back. He wondered if she could feel it. The strain in his arms.

He pressed his face into her neck and planted a dry kiss there. Where her T-shirt had slipped slightly on her shoulder he could see the black bra strap beneath. He recognized it—part of a set she’d bought from Agent Provocateur the last year. The lipstick. The underwear. Oh Abby. So hopeful. And yet the jeans and T-shirt. Scared to push too hard.

Yes, he really was a bastard. Was his wife this nervous with him now?

If only they could go back in time to how it used to be. They’d been so good together.

“I’m shattered,” he said. That’s it, Nigel—set up the excuses early. Not that it’ll hurt her any less when you roll over and face the other way. “The flight was hell, and then that crap at Heathrow, never mind having to go and debrief at the office.”

“But you’re home now.” She stepped back, still smiling. “I’ve even cooked you dinner. Lasagna. From scratch. Who says the traditional wife is dead? Come on, I’ve got a bottle of red open. You look like you need it.”

He followed her into the kitchen, watching her slim frame move with the same sensual rhythm that had caught his eye the first time he’d seen her. He was the problem, not her. She was the one who was sick but he was the one who couldn’t cope. In the main, Abby coped just fine. She even looked the same, give or take a lost pound or two. But the goddamn lupus was always there. And try as he might he couldn’t forgive it for stalking her.

He avoided looking as they passed the small study to the left of the kitchen that had become the dialysis room, but that didn’t stop him feeling the claustrophobic pressure of knowing what was in there.

Why couldn’t she at least shut the bloody door on it? Hide it like those long sleeves hid that wormy fistula on her forearm? Make it easier for him to pretend everything was fine.

“Thanks,” he said, taking the large glass of Merlot she handed him.

Another drink would help. Always did. He felt a sudden pang of loss in his heart. He missed their getting drunk together. After everything he’d seen while away, he could use a little getting drunk and laughing like they used to. He missed their carefree days. He missed his wife, even though she was standing right in front of him.

“You going to join me?”

He cursed himself before the question was fully out. What was he doing? Baiting her illness?

“I’ll have one with dinner. You know how it is.” Her eyes darkened slightly but she busied herself at the oven. “I was so worried when I saw about the airport on the news. Thank God you texted me. I thought you were stuck in there.”

“I was lucky.”

He sipped more of the wine. He was drinking too quickly given that he already had a buzz on from the pub, but this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have with Abby. How could he rage at her about the God Squad idiots trying to spread this shit? How could he talk to her about any of it without getting into some kind of argument? They couldn’t talk about her illness and they sure as shit couldn’t talk about his work and the plague. He wished the BBC would throw up some new drama. Maybe then their conversation could at least pretend not have run dry.

“I got the thing you wanted,” she said as she took two plates down from the shelf.

“Thing?”

“You know.” She busied herself with cutlery and oven gloves and didn’t look him in the eye. “The egg sac.” She said the last words as if she were spilling her illness onto him. “It’s on the table in the sitting room.” Finally, she glanced up at him. “He tried to charge me an extra hundred but I said no.”

“But you got what we ordered?”

His stomach unfurled slightly. His house felt safer already, even if they hadn’t hatched yet.

“I got what you ordered, yes.”

And there it was. The sting. Maybe tonight their argument wouldn’t be his fault. He hadn’t even mentioned her God. Not once.

“They could save our lives, Abs. They’re worth the money.” He sounded reasonable and he was glad of it. “I know you don’t like spiders, but Jesus, if you’d seen what I’ve seen this week, you’d want them in bed with you.”

“It would be nice to have something in bed with me, that’s for sure.” She slapped a heavy spoonful of pasta onto one plate. “And if you want to swear then there are other words to choose.”

Oh, please let’s not do this.

“Just an expression, Abby.”

“For someone who doesn’t believe in Him, you take His name in vain enough.”

They’d been through this...how many times?

“I was raised just as Catholic as you, and that’s all I heard. You must’ve too, because I’ve heard your dad after he’s had a couple.”

“At least he believes.”

“And that makes it okay?”

She faltered a second—just a second—as she dealt another dose of pasta onto a second plate. “That makes it less not okay. But let’s talk about something else.”

“Please, let’s.”

After a hurried gobbling of wine and pasta—really, she was a good cook—between stilted attempts at conversation, dinner ended and he helped her clean up. As they wandered through the sitting room, she paused at the side table.

“Oh, look. Your babies have arrived.”

Nigel joined her and peered over her shoulder at the plate. When he’d first looked, just a moment before dinner, it had resembled a small muddy pearl sitting in a ring box. Now the pearl had developed what appeared to be a faint haze. He leaned closer and saw a milling cloud of tiny beige spiders with black spots on their butts.

“Spiderlings.”

He’d always had a love-hate relationship with spiders. He loved how they fed on pesky insects, especially flies; the way they’d leap upon trapped prey and wrap them in webbing fascinated him. But the way they moved, vertically and horizontally, seeming to glide on their eight speedy legs, gave him major creeps.

Now, however, with what was going on in the world outside, he adored them.

Abby said, “Now what?”

He straightened. “Time to deploy the troops.”

“Now?”

“I want to separate them before they start munching on their siblings.”

She shuddered. “I thought just the mother did that.”

“Sometimes. But either way, these little buggers have got to eat. And considering what they cost, I don’t want them tucking into each other.”

He pulled the stepladder from the closet, then a couple of teaspoons from the drawer.

“I’ll take the upper corners,” he said, handing her a spoon. “You take the lower. We’ll have this done in a trice.”

“‘Trice’?” She smiled, and for an instant he sensed the old Abby peek through. “Did you just say ‘trice’?”

“I believe I did. Where did that come from?”

Truly he had no idea. They laughed together for a moment at the absurdity of the word and it felt good.

He scooped up a few spiderlings in his spoon and climbed into one of the upper corners of the kitchen. He felt unsteady up here. Perhaps this wasn’t the best time, after gin and wine and all, but he couldn’t let them eat each other.

He pressed the tip of the spoon against the wall there and let the babies crawl off the silver onto the plaster. Even if they wandered off, he assumed at least one of them would return, since they seemed to prefer setting up their webs in corners. Too bad those webs wouldn’t be big enough to threaten flies for a while, but he had to start somewhere.

When he returned to the floor he found Abby standing by the plate, spoon in hand, right where he’d left her.

“Come on, have at it,” he said. “Or our trice will become a... what?”

She was shaking her head. “I don’t think I can do this.”

He understood. “Look, I don’t like spiders either, but they’re an extra line of defense.”

“Against what?”

“Against the flies.”

“I think you mean against God.”

Uh-oh. Here we go. Their shared laugh of moments ago was now dust.

“It’s not God who’ll bite you.”

Flippant, he knew, but what the hell did she expect him to say?

“The flies are God’s doing.”

“Really? There I was thinking it was a monumental human fuck-up that had brought this on us. Come on, Abby. I’ve been working on this since it started. This is people. Not God.”

She stepped closer, her eyes pleading. “Don’t you see the symmetry? Humans came out of Africa. So did the flies. God’s hand.”

“Passover was God’s hand too, I believe. Let’s consider the spiders akin to splashing a little lamb’s blood over the door. And as for Adam and Eve, I thought they came from the Garden of Eden. Was that in Africa?”

He was getting angry, and he couldn’t help it. Perhaps he should be trying to appease her, but after everything he’d seen in the last week, the one thing he couldn’t take was her high and mighty God-is-great mentality. Mentality. Mental. She certainly sounded that way these days.

“Give me a little credit, will you.” She looked a bit angry herself now. “I’m not one of those fundamentalist nuts. I don’t take the Bible literally. I know damn well the Earth wasn’t created in six days four thousand years ago.”

“More like six thousand,” he said.

“What?”

“Bishop Ussher’s date was 4004 BC”

“You know that?”

“Idiots amuse me.”

Why don’t I just shut up?

Her face darkened. “Well, I’m not an idiot. I believe in evolution. But I also believe it was guided.”

“You can’t have it both ways. You think some omnipresent God sent the flies but evolution is fine? What about God is great, God is good? If your God is so good then why the hell is he trying to wipe us out? He doesn’t need to lift a finger to do that. Just give us time. Look at history! We’re good enough at doing that for ourselves.”

He refilled his wineglass. Alcohol wasn’t going to help anything, but if he was going to have this argument at the end of a day like today, then he was going to have it with wine.

“Did it ever occur to you that God is fed up with us? To quote you: Look at history. Look what we’ve done to each other. He’s cleaning up his house. And the fact that He’s doing it with flies shows how disgusted He is with us!”

“Ever since you got sick you’ve been looking for meaning in everything. It’s shit that you’re ill. I hate that you’re ill.” There—the closest he’d ever got to an admission of that in the whole time the awful dialysis machine had hulked in the next room. “But it all comes down to cells and structures and bad fucking luck. We live in chaos, Abby. The universe is chaos, and man is a result of that and this so-called plague is the result of man’s stupidity.”

“You always do this,” she said, shaking her head in that condescending way that drove him up the wall. “You want to bring everything down to the dirt. You never look up. Heaven is in charge, Nigel. It keeps its hand hidden, it moves behind the scenes, but it’s always moving. Except for now. Now it’s out in the open. This is like the Great Flood—and there was a great flood in olden times, Nigel. Every religion has an ancient Great Flood. It was a cleansing, and so is this. Can’t you see that?”

“Maybe it is a cleansing. But if so, then nature’s doing it, not some invisible friend.” He stared at his wife. A stranger before him. “If you’re such a fan of God’s will, then why do you plug yourself into that machine every day? Why doesn’t he save you? You’re spreading enough p-r for him, you’d think it’d be the least he could do?”

Behind the red of his rage, he wondered when he’d become so cruel.

“God tests us,” she said levelly. “Like he did Job. And God helps those who help themselves. I’m being tested and I’m responding the best I can.” Sudden tears rimmed her eyes. “But I could use a little support now and then.”

And there it was. The body blow. For all he’d tried to convince himself he’d kept his anger at her sickness to himself, he hadn’t been fooling her. But his anger refused to surrender the helm.

“And what the hell do you mean by that? I do support you. I’m your husband. I pay the mortgage, I keep the money coming in. I put up with all the church stuff because I know you’re struggling.”

And now his turn: default bastard position. Turn the blame around. Good work, Nigel. You’re one in a million.

She gaped at him. “Did I really hear that?” The tears slipped out and ran down her cheeks. “This is what I’m talking about. I’m alone in this marriage. You pay the bills, you come and go, but you... you never...” She seemed at a loss for words. “Damn it, Nigel—I’m not contagious!”

Here was the closest to passionate about their marriage he’d seen her in a long time. They were stripping the lies away, and although he had no idea where that would lead, for the first time in a while he felt as if he could almost breathe in his own home. His anger was starting to fade, overwhelmed by his own grimy guilt.

“Look,” he said. “That’s not what I meant.” He paused. “I love you. You know that.” True as it was, it sounded lame, even to him. “I just... I just find it difficult. I find the way it’s changed you difficult. Can’t you see that you’ve changed?”

Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know any other way to be. I can’t go back to being the girl you dated. I was out of touch with myself then, out of touch with...” She hesitated, then seemed to push out the word. “...Him. I can’t go back to being her. Too much has changed now—inside and out. And the things I’ve seen at the hospital. The dying. What they see. You should come with me and listen to them. Then maybe you’d understand better. He comes for them, Nigel, He really does. They see Him and it’s beautiful.”

He said nothing. He had enough problems dealing with the sickness at home. No way he could face a hospital.

After a moment she wiped her tears. “Do you want to leave?”

He stared at her, his stomach suddenly a gnarled mess of icy knots. Did he? Part of him wanted to turn tail and run. The easy way out. But could he leave her? That was the question. Because he did love her. Still. Under all that God crap, his Abby was still there. She had to be.

He loved her, but he’d stopped liking her. And the world was going to shit. Surely this was the time for them to stick together.

“Of course I don’t want to leave.” The anger was gone. “But I’ve got to go away tomorrow to interview someone about—” He caught himself from finishing the sentence with about how the plague started. They’d only go back round full circle. “About some stuff. Tying up a story. Maybe we both need to think about how we go on from here.”

“Trust me, Nigel. That’s all I think about these days.” She sighed. “You finish spreading your little friends about. I’m going to bed.”

He saw a moment as she brushed past him that he could have grabbed her and held her and hugged her close and told her they’d be all right, but that risked her pushing him away, and so he let it pass, and then she was heading out to the corridor and the stairs.

“I’ll be up in a minute,” he called after her.

Maybe a minute. Maybe an hour. Whenever she was asleep.

HENRY

“Do you see Him, love?”

Maggie lay on her side on the blanket, her voice a soft croak as she spoke to Livvy. If Maggie was pale, poor little Liv was almost transparent. Henry knelt beside his wife and daughter, helpless.

“Who?” said Liv, the single syllable a supreme effort, her voice a ghostly echo.

“God, love. They say He comes to you near the end.”

The end...the words were a knife in his heart, but that was what he was looking at, wasn’t it: the end of his family, the end of the two dearest people in his world.

The end of his world.

“Light,” Liv whispered.

“You see a light? That’s Him! He’s come for you! The Lord’s come to take you home!”

Not to our home, Henry thought.

When they’d come down with the plague, he hadn’t dared take them to the hospital—not after what had happened in Brighton. Hospitals were doing nothing for the plague anyway except watching the sick die. And he couldn’t keep them home where their nosy fucking biddy neighbors who didn’t miss a trick would notice and talk. So they’d gone on the run, ending in this stifling little empty tool shed on an abandoned farm outside Ludgershall. The doors were tight and lots of spiders had silked the high corners and the windows. Moonlight through the grimy panes lit some of those webs now.

In the faint light he watched Liv where she lay on her back, her breaths so shallow. He could almost make out her blue eyes through her pale, frail closed lids. What was she seeing? Really. All this talk about God coming at the end to guide the dying to the next life... how could that be real?

And yet...so many people mentioned seeing Him in their last moments, there had to be some kind of truth behind it. Didn’t there?

“Light,” Liv repeated, the word barely audible.

And then she stopped breathing.

Henry froze, not breathing himself, waiting for a breath, just one more breath, but none came. He leaned over and pressed his ear to her thin, flat chest, strained to hear, but all lay silent within—no heartbeat, not a breath.

No...no, this couldn’t be. Not his little Liv! Eight years on this Earth. Only eight. Not fair! Not enough! Not nearly enough!

He moaned and began pressing on her chest. He’d never learned CPR but this seemed like what he’d seen on the telly. But how hard to press? How—?

“No,” he heard Maggie say. “She’s not coming back. She’s with Him now... in a better place.”

He knew that...he knew it...and so he took his nearly weightless Livvy in his arms and rocked her back and forth until he heard Maggie sigh.

“Light...see it...coming for me. Hello, God.”

And then she too stopped breathing.

Still holding Liv, Henry stared at his wife who, in turn, stared at the ceiling with unseeing eyes.

Hello, God? What about Good-bye, Henry? Was it so wonderful, what they saw in that last moment?

He closed Maggie’s eyes, gathered her against him, and rocked both his darlings, an arm against the back of each head so it wouldn’t loll. So limp, so light. After a while he couldn’t bear the feel of their skin cooling against his touch, so he laid them back and arranged their remains side by side, on their backs, legs straight, hands folded across their chests.

Now the hard part.

He went out to the car and returned with the can of kerosene he’d brought along just for this purpose. He’d known when they’d left home how this was going to end. He began to sob as he poured it over their still forms, glad he had only moonlight to work by and couldn’t see their faces too well. At least they were at peace, while he was anything but. At least he could see to it they stayed at peace. He wasn’t about to let the flies turn them into maggot farms. The little fuck would not be hatching more flies from his darlings.

When the can was near empty, he backed away, leaving a wet trail to the door. Then he pulled the butane lighter from his pocket and dropped to a squat. He thumbed a flame to life but couldn’t bring himself to ignite the spilled fuel.

And yet he knew he must.

Clenching his teeth, he maxed the flame and played it against the end of the wet trail until it caught. The blue-yellow flame slowly inched along the floor toward his darlings. He couldn’t watch them burn so he backed outside and closed the door.

Originally he’d thought he’d turn his back and rush away, but he couldn’t leave. He had to make sure they caught and burned. He was safe from flies in the dark hours, so he stood and watched the windows as they began to glow, brighter and brighter as the flames consumed the remains of his darlings.

Eventually the dried wood siding of the shed caught and he had to back away from the heat, but still he watched. Under normal circumstances he’d have worried about fire fighters showing up to battle the blaze, but circumstances were far from normal. A rural fire was no longer a major concern. And even if it were, firefighter ranks had been gutted by disease and desertion. No one would come.

Henry watched until the shed collapsed upon itself with a gush of flame and a swirling barrage of sparks.

Now he could leave.

He sobbed as he drove north, toward London. His brother lived in town and his mum was still in Cricklewood. If he could sneak through the army lines, he’d pay a visit, say his good-byes, and then... what?

Jump in the Thames, he supposed. He couldn’t think of anything to live for, and he wasn’t about the let the bloody flies get him.

NIGEL

A high-pitched drone dopplered past his ear. It didn’t seem loud enough to have awakened him, so maybe he was already awake. Or maybe his subconscious had become attuned to the sound of a—

Fly?

Nigel jolted upright in bed and looked around in the dark just as it buzzed by his ear again.

“Shit! We’ve got a fly!”

He fumbled for the nightstand lamp and switched it on. Next to him, Abby rolled away from the light and buried her face into the pillow. Her muffled cry sounded like a demand for a turtledove or some such. Nigel was about to respond when a quick look around the room locked his voice.

Flies...dozens of them...zipping through the air or clinging to the sheers over the windows.

This could not be happening. Bottling his terror, he shook Abby.

“What?” she said, eyes still closed, voice dripping annoyance as she lifted her head.

“Flies. We’ve got flies. Lots of them.”

She snapped up to sitting and looked around. “Dear God, you’re right! But how could—?”

“I don’t know. I mean, you’re awake, right? You see them too, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Shit. He’d been hoping this was some sort of nightmare.

“Did you leave a window open?”

“Of course not. And they’re all netted anyway.”

Right. Right. He vaguely remembered hearing a clank from downstairs as he was falling off—but had it been it real? He couldn’t seem to put his brain in gear. Think! Christ, one bite and they were goners. He wore a T-shirt and boxer shorts and his clothes lay draped over a chair half a dozen feet away. Too far to go with so much exposed skin.

The bedclothes—sheets and a light summer blanket. He grabbed the blanket and began pulling it from the bed.

“What are you doing?” Abby said.

“You take the sheet, I’ll take this. Wrap up. Don’t let them get you.”

Abby flopped back and pulled the sheet over her head. “This way is even better.”

“We can’t just lie here and let them take over the house!”

“Our wonderful spiders will get them.”

“You know damn well they’re nowhere near ready for that!”

“We’ll wait.”

Still mad at him from before, obviously. Well, she had a right to be, he guessed. Still, her attitude was pissing him off.

“We’ve got to get rid of them, Abby. Are you going to help or not?”

Draping the blanket over his head and wrapping it around his body, he slipped out of bed and made a beeline for his clothes. Behind him, he heard a bitter laugh.

“You look like that crazy priest from Gunga Din. No, you’re Cornholio!”

“Not funny!”

“No, wait-wait! You look like Mother Theresa.”

“Abby—”

She laughed louder. “You’ve found God!”

“Shit!”

He shrugged off the blanket and pulled on his wrinkled shirt. How could she joke about this? Almost as if she—

The epiphany made him stop and turn.

“You don’t care, do you?”

She sat up and gave him a puzzled stare. “I do. But...”

He felt his patience fraying as he pulled on his pants and warily watched the flies buzz around the room. They seemed more confused than aggressive.

“But what?”

“I’ve decided I’m not going to be afraid anymore.”

Was she crazy? “Abby—one bite and it’s over.”

She rose from the bed and stood calmly in her overlong T-shirt and elastic forearm sleeve. “Yep, so why spend our time in fear? And God must want us, Nigel.”

“What?”

She gestured to the flies. “Look at them. We have a swarm in our bedroom—in a house that’s as secure as the Crown Jewels! What does that tell you?”

He didn’t have an answer for that, but he’d go for anything but what Abby was saying. And whatever the cause he had to get rid of them. But first to find how they were getting in and put a stop to it.

Replacing the blanket over his head, he ran for the stairs to the first floor. He’d stocked up on bug spray but had stored it in the laundry room off the kitchen. A long trek. If—

The stench hit him as he stepped onto the first floor.

“Christ!”

He flipped a light switch and recoiled at the swarm of flies in the living room. They seemed concentrated around the fireplace. Something there, on the andirons. He stepped closer and the carrion stench almost overwhelmed him. He flipped on a brighter light and flinched at sight of the rotting... thing in the hearth. A dead squirrel or large rat or—whatever the thing was, it squirmed with maggots.

Many of the newly hatched flies had alighted on the mantle. Close up now he could see their bodies were shorter than the plague flies.

Suddenly he felt like an idiot. Cowering under a blanket in his own home all because of—

“Fuck!”

“What?”

He turned. Abby stood on the stairs, holding her nose. He didn’t know if from relief or chagrin or a combination of both, he couldn’t help it—he started to laugh.

“Bloody fucking house flies, is what!”

“That stink!”

He laughed again. “I’m so goddamn smart! When we sealed the chimney last month we must’ve trapped something in there with some houseflies. It died, they laid eggs, and the leftovers dropped through the damper!”

Abby wasn’t laughing. She kept her hand over her nose and mouth.

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “I’ll use the log tongs and bag it up and get it out of here.”

Still no response.

Then he knew—or thought he did.

“Don’t tell me you’re disappointed?”

“We could have been together,” she said around her hand.

“We are together.”

“I meant with Him.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

“We’d be happy.” She turned and hurried back upstairs. “We aren’t happy now, that’s for damn sure!”

He stepped to the stairs and called up after her. “We’re not special, Abby. Your God didn’t send a special squadron of flies after us—that’s what’s really eating you, isn’t it.”

The bedroom door slammed.

She’s lost it, he thought. Completely lost it.

FRIDAY

BBC:

You are watching a live video feed from Beijing, a city that has become famous for its smog. But that’s not smog you see hanging over the buildings. Those are flies. Apparently the death toll in the rural provinces has been staggering, with local authorities unable to bury the bodies. That in turn has led to an explosion in the fly population...

NIGEL

He’d almost hoped that Abby would still be in bed by the time he left the house but that wasn’t to be. Their bedroom door had been shut when he’d crept out of the spare room and gone for a shower, but by the time he was out he could hear the kettle boiling downstairs.

Shit. His stomach knotted. The echo of their fight over dinner didn’t bother him. That had faded to nothing compared to her revelation in the middle of the night. She didn’t care if she got bitten because she’d be with God? What had happened to the woman he’d married?

“I’m making you eggs and bacon,” she said, putting a mug of milky coffee on the breakfast bar for him. “I figure you’re going straight to the paper?”

Nigel nodded. This wasn’t quite the reception he’d been expecting. She wasn’t looking him in the eye, but neither was she sulking or crying. The knot unfurled slightly. The problems between them hadn’t gone away but it seemed neither of them was in the mood for confrontation this morning.

She pushed the bacon around in one pan, crisping the edges up, while eggs sizzled in a second. They smelled good.

“Nice breakfast.”

“These sort of things won’t keep so we might as well enjoy them while we can. The supplies in the shops are thinning out.”

“It’s going to work out, you know. They’ll find a cure. They always do.” He believed that. “But maybe we should think of stocking up on a few things.”

She made a noncommittal noise.

He sipped his mug and was glad the small kitchen TV was on, burbling away in the background and filling the awkward silences. He hadn’t been a fan when she’d decided she wanted one—he’d always thought having televisions in more than one room was the desperate act of couples who had nothing to say to each other anymore—but this morning he was grateful for it. And shit, maybe they were one of those couples now.

“I’m sorry we fought,” he said, choosing his words carefully. This was a truce, not the end of the battle. “I was stressed and tired after the flight and work. I didn’t want to fight with you.”

“Me too.” She reached for a couple of slices of bread and put them in the toaster. “And what I said last night?” She finally looked over at him. “I didn’t mean I wanted to die. I’m not suicidal. I’m just not going to be afraid any more. Que sera, sera.”

Here we go again.

“You know, Abby...” he kept his voice soft. He should have kept it silent but, just like her, he couldn’t help himself when it came to speaking his mind. That was something they still had in common. “I can see how for someone with faith it would be easy to think that this whole plague is the work of some supreme being, but it isn’t. This is butterflies-in-the-forest stuff.”

He waited for her back to arch slightly with irritation, but it didn’t.

Instead, she took a plate from the cupboard and started scooping out his eggs.

“Chaos theory,” he said. Surely that would get a reaction. Was she even listening to him? At least she wasn’t arguing back. “The wrong fly got caught in the wrong net and then got caught up in the wrong well-meaning project and something completely unpredictable happened. No one could have known what would happen. And if some lizard had then eaten that fly, none of this would have happened. The results had nothing to do with the Divine—just an unlucky chain of events. No one was even trying to—”

He frowned, his eye caught on the small screen. He recognized the photo of the face showing there. Rajiv Singh. What the hell was—?

“Can you turn that up?” he said.

“What?”

“The TV.” Breakfast was forgotten as he pushed past her to get closer to the set. “Where’s the damned remote?”

“Here. What’s the matter with you?”

The irritation in her voice washed past him as he snatched the remote from her hand and turned up the volume.

The BBC breaking News red banner had a constant scroll running. “British scientist, Rajiv Singh, identified as being the possible originator of the plague fly.”

“No, no, no...” he muttered.

How could they have this story? This was all his work and no one had seen it outside of the meeting at The Light yesterday. What the hell was going on?

“Oxford entomologist, Rajiv Singh, is one of the world’s leading specialists in the study of insects and flies, according to sources who revealed this story today.” The somber-faced female reporter was standing outside a three-story Georgian row house with all its curtains pulled closed. Was that Singh’s house? Jesus. “For three years, Dr. Singh ran a facility in Salonga National Park working on a project using gamma rays to sterilize the male tsetse fly.”

“What is it?” Abby said.

Behind him, the bacon still sizzled in the pan as the screen split to include the anchorman back in the studio.

“And this was in the Congo where the first plague cases were discovered?”

“Yes, that’s right. Dr. Singh’s research center closed down and six months afterward the first cases were reported barely more than five miles away. Of course, we can’t be certain until we speak to Dr. Singh that his work there caused the plague to follow, but that’s the logical conclusion.”

“But that’s not true!” Nigel’s stomach turned to water. He turned to Abby. “We don’t know that yet! We have no proof! It’s all just circumstantial! And how the hell have they got my story? I’ve been holding it back until corroboration!”

“This is your—?” Abby started, but Nigel was already pushing past her.

She could wait. Her God could wait. He needed to get to The Light and get to the bottom of this clusterfuck before it all got out of hand.

Chaos theory, he thought again, as he stormed out of the front door, had a lot to fucking answer for.

ABBY

As the door closed behind Nigel, Abby drifted toward the TV to shut it off but paused, remote in hand, as the anchor switched to a “scientific expert.” The man looked properly professorial with his wire-rimmed glasses and bow tie as his credits streamed across the bottom of the screen.

He blathered on about mutations, saying that the probability of Dr. Singh’s gamma-ray sterilization of tsetse males inadvertently causing a significant mutation in another species of fly was remote. And that the probability of a single such mutation leading to this worldwide plague was even more remote. But under prompting by the anchor, he reluctantly admitted that, while highly improbable, it was possible.

That seemed to be what the anchor wanted to hear, because he immediately cut away to the outside Dr. Singh’s home. It seemed that even in the minutes since Nigel had been watching, a crowd had gathered there—an angry crowd of ordinary people, jostling alongside the reporters and cameramen. A roving reporter had found a wild-haired Nigerian whose heavily accented English was difficult to decipher word for word, but the gist was clear: The white-man’s plot to unleash a genocidal plague in Africa had backfired and now threatened the entire globe.

“Idiot,” Abby muttered as she jabbed the remote’s MUTE button. “Doctor Singh is Indian.”

She turned to find the bacon burning. She switched off the heat. Ruined. No matter. Nigel was gone and she had no appetite.

She’d known from the start that he was angry about her lupus—angry that she’d come down with it. But when his anger had found no target, it turned on her renewed belief in God. And then it expanded to include her.

He seemed angry at everything now—the whole world.

Living together was becoming harder and harder but she had to stay with him. The Church forbade divorce. And besides, she rather suspected Nigel was another trial for her, an ongoing test of her faith.

Nigel...an instrument of the Lord. She found the irony fascinating.

She turned back to the silent screen and its view of the scene outside the researcher’s house. As she watched, Nigel’s words about chaos theory echoed through her brain.

Try as she might, she saw nothing truly chaotic about it. What had Jesus said? And not one sparrow will fall to the ground without your Father’s will. Perhaps God had caused that mutation.

No...not perhaps. A certainty.

And why not? He worked in mysterious ways, often hiding His hand. For the key was faith, wasn’t it. And if he showed His hand too blatantly, faith would no longer be necessary. Humanity would know.

Abby smiled. Yes, she liked that. Nigel hadn’t been able to establish a link between Dr. Singh’s work and the plague flies. To his credit, he was always rigorous in his search for truth—the whole truth. And he hadn’t been satisfied that he’d found it, and so he’d held back the story.

But you’ll never find the truth, Nigel, she thought. Because you’re looking in the wrong place.

Thanks to Nigel, of all people, she saw how it had happened, how God had worked the string of cause and effect. A mutation in a fly’s DNA altered a protein in its saliva that caused an autoimmune reaction in humans. God caused His latest creation to avoid the insectivores that might have ended its existence before it could breed, and He caused its first victim to miss when swatting at the little thing that had bitten him. God caused that DNA mutation to occur in a remote jungle so that the fly’s untended dead victims could provide maggot fodder, leading to an explosion in the population of this new species... and thus a civilization-threatening plague.

A delicate daisy chain of cause and effect, all the way down the line, leading inexorably back to the Uncaused Cause: God.

Poor Nigel. Instead of shaking her faith, his rigorous research had only bolstered it.

But something else he’d said came back to her. Last night, during their fight, he’d said, If you’re such a fan of God’s will, then why do you plug yourself into that machine every day? Why doesn’t he save you? It had niggled at her all night.

Because it was a good question. How could she, on one hand, argue for accepting God’s will for the world, and then, on the other, subvert it when it came to the trial he’d sent her way?

A strange and sudden clarity suffused her. She’d sinned by falling away from God and the Church, and for that, an incurable illness had been visited upon her. The world too had fallen away from God and now it too faced an incurable illness.

The symmetry was as awesome as it was inescapable.

One way or another she was going to die at the hand of her Lord and God. She saw now that she’d been given a choice, and she had no doubt about her decision.

Feeling almost giddy, she turned off the TV and tossed the remote on the couch. Then she hurried upstairs to the master bath where she found Nigel’s travel kit. She rummaged through it until she came up with his straight razor. He’d told her he carried it because he never knew when he’d need a shave in a place with no electricity. Plus it doubled as a handy cutting tool when he needed one.

She opened it and stared at the beveled blade.

Yes, this would do nicely.

Then she would go to the hospital. Her dialysis schedule and the fatigue of the lupus had made full-time nursing impossible. But she could still go in and comfort the sick and dying. That was the Lord’s work, and this was her day to volunteer.

HENRY

Henry tore his gaze from the dark, earnest face on the TV screen.

Dr. Rajiv Singh...

He nudged his brother in the chair next to him. “That’s the fuck what killed my...” His vision blurred as the names clogged in his throat. He forced them through. “My Maggie and Liv.”

“Where?”

He pointed to the screen. “There. Him.”

But the face was gone, replaced by a view of the mob scene outside the fucker’s home. A nice home. Better than anything Henry ever could have provided for his loved ones.

He never drank this early in the day and he’d already had too much for any time of day. But that didn’t stop him from signaling for another whiskey to go with his Newkie. They’d run out of Guinness and didn’t know if they’d be getting more in. He couldn’t afford it, but so what? His life savings were tucked in his pocket, and he had nothing and no one left to save for.

“What are you talkin’ about?” Jamie said.

His older brother was heavier with a red face and a veiny nose. This wasn’t too early in the day for him. Not a bit.

“The guy who started the plague—that Indian cunt.”

“Weren’t no Indian,” Jamie’s friend Alex said. He’d gone prematurely gray and sported a short, salt-and-pepper beard. “Was the Chinese. They started with AIDS but that only got rid of the queers—and not enough of them, y’ask me. Then their bird flu didn’t work out, so now they’re trying this.”

Had Henry known Alex better he would have told him straight off to shut his face, but he was Jamie’s mate and so he kept quiet. But damn, the dickhead hadn’t heard a conspiracy theory he didn’t love.

“No, they’re saying this scientist here x-rayed the flies that started the plague.”

Alex made a sour face. “‘They’? Who? The BBC? They only feed you what the government wants you to hear. And as for flies, they don’t spread the plague. They’re just a smokescreen. It’s a virus. You catch it like you catch a cold. The only protection is vitamin E. Two thousand units a day’ll do it. I take four.”

Fucking idiot, Henry thought as he watched the screen.

But he had to admit Alex put his health where his mouth was. He’d arrived at the pub bareheaded in a short-sleeve shirt while Henry and Jamie had worn gloves and a couple of the beekeeper hats Jamie had snagged before there’d been a run on them.

Alex would catch the plague real soon. Because it wasn’t contagious. Maggie and Liv had been bitten and they got sick; Henry hadn’t been bitten and he’d tended his two loves through their last minutes and hadn’t got sick.

He didn’t trust the government any more than Alex, but his gut told him this wasn’t—what did they call it?—misinformation? No. Disinformation. This wasn’t any of that. This sounded real. It accused a scientist connected to the government of causing the plague. Would the government blame itself? Not likely.

No...the flies brought the plague. And Dr. Rajiv Singh had made the flies.

The TV cameraman was scanning the crowd outside this Singh’s house. They were all muffled against the haze of flies buzzing around them. Someone threw a rock. It sailed through the air and bounced off the front door.

In that instant Henry knew where he wanted to be—needed to be. He turned to his brother.

“You know where that is?”

Jamie squinted at the screen. “Somewhere in Camden, looks like. What d’you think Al?”

Alex nodded. “I’d say you’re right.”

Henry knocked back his whiskey and gulped the rest of his ale.

“Take me there,” he said, rising.

The room wobbled a bit and he had to grab the edge of the stable to steady himself.

“What?” Jamie said. “Into that mob?”

Henry nodded. He craved a word or two with Dr. Rajiv Singh.

NIGEL

The wall of the first floor of the Singhs’ terraced house had been whitewashed but the two upper levels were natural stone. Every window on all three floors was shattered. Nigel had fought his way through the crowd to the front door and the two policemen posted there.

Despite raising his ski mask—red with blue stripes, unlike the black balaclava style in vogue—to expose his face and showing his press credentials, they refused to let him pass. Nigel, in turn, refused to take no for an answer.

“But Doctor Singh will want to speak to me,” he said. “I may be the one man able to clear up some of this misunderstanding.”

This morning he’d arrived at The Light and couldn’t find his thumb drive. He’d turned his office upside down but it was gone. No one had duplicated his research—they’d stolen it. Must have hacked through his password too.

He’d called the entomologist at the museum but he hadn’t come in today. Nigel hoped to hell he hadn’t caught the plague. He’d headed toward Sussex but had been turned back. His press credentials had been no more useful there than here.

“Look, sir,” one of the officers finally said, “I’ve got no doubt you’re exactly who you say you are, but even if the folks inside wanted to talk to you—and they don’t want to talk to anybody from the press—we can’t let anyone in. You can understand that.” He gestured behind Nigel. “I let you in and they’ll want in too.”

Nigel turned and looked. The crowd filled the street from pavement to pavement and corner to corner. Somewhere behind the threatening rain clouds the sun had dropped below the horizon. Darkness was falling, but instead of dispersing, the crowd seemed to be growing. The flies stopped swarming at night and that would perhaps bring even more people outside.

“They’re already ugly,” said the other constable. “Been picking cobblestones out of the road and flinging them at the house. A little spark and we could have a full-scale riot on our hands. And letting you inside could just be that spark. So why don’t you do us all a favor and move on.”

Nigel’s impulse was to keep pushing, but he saw the way some of those at the front were glowering at him and decided on discretion.

He turned back to the policemen. “Okay. We’ll do it your way. But if you think you’re sitting on such a tinderbox, why not just get the Singhs out of here?”

The bobbies exchanged a weary glance.

The first said, “That’s in the works.”

“Been in the works all day,” said the second.

Down at the end of the block, he saw a TV truck with a dish on top. A cameraman stood on the roof, recording the scene. Nigel headed that way. He knew a fair number of TV people. Maybe they could help him.

THE WHITTINGTON HOSPITAL

Funny how things changed, Dr. Kumaran thought, and so quickly.

He sipped bad coffee from the machine and waited for the volunteer nurse, Abby, to join him for what had become their habitual daily rounds. At first, after the flies had hit London, no one in the hospital wanted to walk amongst the dying. They did, of course. That was their job, and they knew—at least the rational part of their minds knew—that the plague was terrible and deadly, but it wasn’t contagious. Still, to watch it ravage a body so quickly when you could do nothing to help was entirely against the nature of those who had trained so hard to heal.

When it had started, and the first wave of victims had flowed in, Manu Kumaran had been reminded of the early days when he practiced medicine in the slums of Mumbai. Endless sickness that couldn’t be held back however much you tried. He’d learned that lesson quickly. Poverty would always win, as would disease. Every life saved was nothing compared to the masses who were dying. The battle would be relentless and unwinnable.

Now, the civilized world was learning first hand that same lesson from thirty years ago. The flies would win. He’d known that from the first news reports. He’d felt it in his water, as some of the old boys in the geriatric ward would say. Some not so much older than him, he had to admit, and his water held less well than it had back in the sticky heat of India.

But still, when he’d seen humanity’s end coming, he did what he’d done all those years ago: drawn his squat frame tall and vowed at least to ease the suffering of those whose paths he crossed. Kindness, that was the best medicine he had to offer—something very much forgotten in the overworked and underpaid corridors of so many NHS hospitals where quotas and budgets and staffing crises overtook such ethereal qualities.

Despite being a heart specialist, he had taken to visiting the sick, the ones without family at their bedside, and talking softly to them, holding their hands and listening to their fears and thoughts before the disease bore them off. So many had no other visitor. Another lesson few learned until too late was that fear would so often win out over love. Governments across the world could scream out that this deathly plague wasn’t contagious, but who trusted governments anymore?

Now, however, it would seem as if, in their very dying, the ill-fated patients had some kindness of their own to give back.

“Shall we?”

The voice was soft and, without looking to his side, Dr. Kumaran nodded.

He hadn’t known the young volunteer until he had found her sitting among the dying one night, her eyes wide in wonder, talking soothingly as she held onto a middle-aged man’s hand. But the man had been comforting her, not the other way round, even if he had been so unaware.

Yes, Kumaran thought as he started to walk, strange how things change.

“Do you believe it’s really God they see?” she asked.

For a moment Dr. Kumaran wasn’t sure how to answer. Did he think that? Were these beautiful, joyous visions the dying experienced really a message from a supernatural being? Or were they just a byproduct of the failing organs, nature providing an accidental kindness of her own in the moments before expiration? Hypoxia? A serotonin release? Dopamine?

Even as a child he’d had no truck with religion of any form. Chemicals and cells, that was all humanity was—all crystal clear to him, and he’d never felt any loss for a lack of faith. But recently, on these quiet, private night walks when his shifts were done, he had found himself beginning to wonder. The hallucinations—the visions—were all so similar. The descriptions were all so passionate and glorious that he could not stop a seed of doubt from entering his mind.

No, for himself, he had no real answer yet. He found peace of sorts from watching the last moments of the dying, but were they seeing God? He hoped never to learn the answer to that question.

“All that matters,” he said, as they opened the ward door and stepped inside, “is whether you think it is God.”

“I do,” she said, nodding with an enviable certainty.

He surveyed the daunting scene before him: private rooms with two or three beds and cots, semi-private rooms crammed with four or more, gurneys and cots in the hallways. So many. Too many.

But he managed a smile as he watched Nurse Abby move among them like a wraith, a soothing presence, bringing peace and acceptance. She stopped at a young woman’s bedside and took her hand. Several of the patients were becoming agitated. The visions were coming. He let peace settle in his soul.

HENRY

They’d been passing a bottle of dark rum back and forth during the tube ride to Camden, and by the time they arrived Henry was thoroughly bladdered. They wandered around a bit until they found the crowd. Wasn’t hard. Couldn’t miss it. Huge.

Henry didn’t let that stop him. He barged right in, weaving an unsteady path among its members in their long pants and long sleeves—turtlenecks had made a big comeback—and gloves despite the summer heat.

“Where can I get one of those?” a man said, pointing to Henry’s veiled bee helmet.

The man wore one of those patterned Arab scarves wrapped around his head and face, although the small areas of pale skin visible around his goggles said he was from a lot farther north than the Mid East. Looked like a Norwegian Arafat. A lot of people in the crowd wearing those Arab things. Had to be hot under them. Even though the light breeze was heavy and humid with crowd sweat, at least the mesh veil on Henry and Jamie’s helmets let it through.

“You don’t need none of that,” said Alex, pointing to the surgical mask over his mouth and nose as he brought up the rear of their trio. “Just this.”

Still insisting that the flies didn’t carry the plague, the only thing he’d added to his outfit upon leaving the pub was the mask. The guy in the Arab scarf stepped back at sight of Alex and all his exposed flesh. A normal reaction, Henry guessed, when confronted with madness.

They moved on, careful not to trip in the gaps left by pried-up cobblestones. The nearer the house, the tougher the going until Henry got the bright idea of putting Alex in the lead. People made way for him.

When they finally reached the house, Henry saw two ruddy-faced policemen stationed at the front door. But no lights on inside, despite the deepening dusk.

“I’ll bet they’re not even home,” Henry said, disappointed.

“Oh, they’ll be home all right,” said a muffled woman’s voice directly to his left.

She had an Irish accent but was dressed in one of those dark blue thingies that cover Arab women from head to toe. Henry knew the name... burrr... burka. This one even had netting over the eyeholes. Perfect for fly protection. Maybe those Islamic nutters weren’t so daft after all.

“Yeah, we spied himself earlier,” said the big man next to her in an even thicker accent. “Peekin’ out the window, he was.”

Henry stared at the lifeless house. “Well, then they’ve run off out the back since then.”

“Oh, they tried,” said the woman, “but people out in their rear garden started throwin’ stones at ‘em. Drove ‘em back inside.”

“Good,” Henry said. He eyed the front door, painted a stark black against the white wall. “I’ve got a bone to pick with him.”

“Don’t we all,” said the man. “But you can forget that. Those coppers aren’t letting anyone near the door.”

Henry could see that. A wasted trip. He’d wanted to look that heathen bastard in the eye and ask him why he’d fucked up those flies so they killed his Maggie and Liv.

“Now what?” Jamie said.

“We wait.” Henry folded his arms. “Gotta come out some time.”

Swaying, Alex turned to them and whispered, “We can charge those coppers. Three of us and two of them.”

The idea had merit, and Henry was considering it when he was distracted by a bit of light blurring through the air. At first he thought it might have been a figment of the rum, but then it crashed through an already broken first-floor window and exploded inside. Flames blossomed and lit the darkness within.

Henry cried, “Was that a—?”

“Yeah-yeah,” said the big Irishman. “A feckin’ Molotov cocktail!”

While the coppers gaped, another bottle flew through a second-floor window and belched flame into the evening air.

As smoke began to pour from the shattered windows, the policemen rushed up and banged on the door—to evacuate the family, no doubt. A hail of cobblestones replaced the cocktails. Most banged and thudded off the walls, but enough connected with the pair to knock them flat.

Just then the black door opened and a man appeared with a woman and a little girl, all backlit by the flames behind them.

“That’s him!” Henry screamed. “That’s the fucker!”

At sight of them a cry went up from the mob. The rum haze Henry had been moving through vaporized in a blast of rage. Everything became agonizingly, heartbreakingly clear. Maggie and Livvy were dead and this man had killed them, just as sure as he’d put a bullet through each of their heads.

He dropped to a knee and clawed at the cobblestones, already loosened by others before him. Got his fingers around one, reared back, and let it fly without aiming. It bounced harmlessly off the wall. But he wasn’t alone in the task. More stones flew from elsewhere in the crowd, driving the Singhs back into their burning home.

“Burn!” Henry screamed. “Burn in hell!”

They’d closed their door against the hail of rocks. They couldn’t stay in there. They—

“The back!” he said. “That’s where they’re going!”

The big Irish guy had said some of the crowd was out back in the garden. Would they let them out? Damn fuck better not. He was about to fight his way toward the end of the block to reach the rear when he noticed movement at the first floor window to the right of the door.

Silhouetted against the flames inside, someone was raising the sash. It made no sense—all the panes were broken anyway. But as a small form was lowered through the opening, Henry understood—the Singhs were trying to sneak their daughter out of the house.

The sight of it triggered memories of Livvy’s body being consumed by flame, and something detonated inside Henry.

“No way! No fucking way!”

He ran forward, grabbed the child, and hurled her back through the window. If his daughter had to burn, so did Singh’s.

An explosion shook the house and even the street, blasting billows of flame from the first-floor windows. Henry saw the little girl thrown against the sill, engulfed in flame, and then she toppled back inside.

Henry backed away, stumbling as he stared in horror at the window, empty but for the flames that roared from it.

What had he just done? What in God’s name had he done?

NIGEL

With a conscious effort, Nigel shut his gaping jaw. But as much as he wanted to look away from the monitor, he could not.

Seconds ago he’d been joking with a producer he’d known for years. And then the first Molotov had hit. All eyes had turned to the monitors carrying the feed from the roof of the truck. Conversation ebbed with the second, and died when the Singhs were refused egress from their front door.

With the final atrocity—hurling that poor child back through the window—the interior of the truck had gone dead silent. For a few seconds, no one moved, no one even breathed. And then cries and moans and profanities filled the air. Nigel stayed silent. He had no choice. His tongue seemed to weigh a ton and his mouth was dry as the Sahara.

The Singhs...an entire family... father, mother, child... gone... all gone.

Many people, in the mob and in the media, had contributed to the atrocity he’d just witnessed. The police too—yes, they were shorthanded with more and more failing to show up for work, choosing to stay at home rather than expose themselves to the plague—but it had been obvious even to a casual observer that the situation outside the Singh house had been a powder keg.

But what could be obvious to only one man was that it had all started with the carelessness of one man.

Me, Nigel thought. This horror began with me.

ABBY

Nigel pulled off his striped ski mask as he stepped through the door and looked exactly like she knew he would. And she knew why. The telly had been replaying the horrific scene nonstop. Her heart went out to him.

“Nigel, you can’t blame yourself.”

He looked surprised to see her. “Tell me who else I can blame and I’ll do so. With relish.”

“It’s not as if you published that story.”

“No, but my notes and research were used to set a match to that poor man and his family. Even if they were stolen—”

“Stolen? Oh, no.”

He nodded. “Oh, yes. Someone stole my thumb drive and sold it to a BBC stringer. I hope he chokes on the money.”

“Well, there, you see? You can’t be—”

“Abby, I was there!” He dropped onto the couch and buried his face in his hands. “I watched that little girl... if I’d just stuck that drive in my pocket before leaving the office, she’d still be...”

Was that a sob? She’d never heard Nigel cry. He could be such a cold, obstinate bastard at times, and those times had become more and more frequent lately. But she knew another Nigel, one who felt deeply.

There—another sob. The pure anguish in the sound drew her to his side like iron to a magnet. She reached out, hesitated—how would he react?—then laid her hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, Nigel, it’s all right.”

He dropped his hands from his face and covered her hand with one of his.

“No, it’s not. But thank you for saying that.” He shot to his feet. “I need a drink.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“It’ll be the best thing that’s happened to me all day.”

Well, she guessed she could use some wine herself.

“I’ve got more of that red.”

“I need something a little harder. I have a bottle of Irish I’ve been saving, and this just might be the night for it.”

She hadn’t known about that. “Where is it? I’ll—”

“I stashed it in the desk,” he said, walking toward the dialysis room.

A minute later he emerged with a bottle, his straight razor, and a concerned expression.

“I found this in there.”

Crap. Think!

“I needed it to open something.”

“We have every sort of knife in the next room.”

The truth burst from her like vomit. “I was going to cut up and empty all the dialysate bags.”

He put the bottle on the table and looked like she’d just slapped him across the face.

“What? Why on Earth...?”

She forced a shrug. “I got to thinking about what you said last night and had to agree: If putting spiders around the house was thwarting God’s will, so was dialysis five times a week.”

He took a step closer. “Have you gone completely crazy? That... that’s insane!”

“You know the saying, ‘Let go, let God?’”

“Yeah—it means let go of all responsibility for yourself.” He stared into her eyes. “I know I can be a selfish shit, but am I that bad to live with? You’d rather die than go on living with me?”

“Why does it always have to be about you, Nigel? This was between me and God.”

“What? Did you have a conference call? A little tête-à-tête while I was out?”

“Don’t start.”

“Really? Because last time I looked, suicides went straight to hell.”

“I didn’t see it that way at first. I thought I was putting myself in God’s hands and letting him decide whether I live or die.”

“You could play Russian roulette and say the same thing! At least then you’ve got a five-in-six chance of survival. But stopping dialysis leaves you zero chance. You know and I know, Abby, that without regular use of that machine in there, you’re a goner!”

She couldn’t argue that.

“Wouldn’t have worked anyway,” he added, “because I’d have carted you straight to the hospital.”

“I wouldn’t have gone.”

“You damn well would have, even if I had to carry you!”

“I’d refuse treatment.”

“I’d tell them you’ve gone ‘round the bend!”

“You’d have to prove that, and you couldn’t. And really, Nigel, don’t you think they’ve got their hands too full with plague victims to waste time on a perfectly healthy-looking woman who wants nothing to do with them?” She shrugged again. “But it’s all moot because I couldn’t do it.”

He took another step toward her. “What changed your mind?”

“If it isn’t suicide, it’s close to suicide. I wasn’t just letting go and letting God, I was actively destroying something that my life depended on.”

“Jesus,” he said.

She let the word go this time. For the first time in a long while, she could see something close to love for her in his expression.

“I’m glad you saw the light.” He took her hands in his. “You frighten me, Abby.”

The tension between them vanished. It was good to feel him touching her—wanting to touch her—even if it was something as simple as holding hands.

“I frighten myself sometimes,” she said. “Especially this morning. When I made the decision I had such clarity, such peace. But when I went to do it a voice inside me screamed, ‘Stop!’ And I looked down at the razor and asked myself what was wrong with me. Is the lupus affecting my brain? I dropped the razor and ran from the room. I went to the hospital and helped people die of the plague. Somehow that made more sense.”

“What’s happened to you, Abby?” His voice choked. “Where did you go? I want you back.”

She took him in her arms and didn’t say what she thought: Your old Abby is gone for good. They simply held each other.

When he’d found the razor she expected anger, rage that she’d even considered stopping dialysis. She hadn’t been prepared for his grief.

SATURDAY

CANINE GENOCIDE?

LONDON—Veterinary clinics have

reported a massive upsurge in

requests to euthanize the family dog.

People from all walks of life, from

bank clerks to pensioners, are

bringing their beloved pooches to

the vet and requesting they be put

down in as peaceful and painless a

manner as possible. They request

the act remain a secret from the

rest of the family, preferring to tell

their spouses or children that the

dog ran away and has never returned.

The truth of the matter is that they

can no longer risk the twice- or thrice-

daily routine of taking the dog for a

walk. The plague flies have transformed

a pleasant outing for the pet into a

death-defying exploit for the owner.

Those who have a garden, and can

simply open the door and let the

animal out, have no problem. But it’s

an entirely different story for apartment

dwellers. The number of dogs found

dead of rat poison in public rubbish

bins indicates that some owners prefer

a do-it-yourself approach. (The Guardian)

NIGEL

Mal stood over Nigel’s desk, shaking his head. “You look like pure, unadulterated shit.”

Nigel didn’t look up. His head felt ready to explode and he was sure if he moved it too fast it would split off and topple onto his desk.

“If only I felt that good.”

“The Singhs?”

“Among other things, but they headed the list.”

He’d put a major dent in the bottle of Midleton last night, but it hadn’t helped then, and it had only hurt this morning. He hadn’t been completely straight with Mal. Abby had replaced the Singhs as his number-one cause of grief. The fact that she’d even considered committing slow suicide like that—unbelievable. They stayed up awhile, just holding each other, then she’d gone to bed and he’d stayed with the Midleton.

Mal sighed. “Remember the other night at the pub when I said I thought you’d had enough plague for a while?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, I no longer think it, I know it.”

Nigel raised his head—carefully—and looked at him. “Oh, no. Oh, no.”

“We’ve already had this conversation.”

“I said after I got back from Sussex—”

“Which you are.”

“But I didn’t get into Sussex.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re off the plague. I thought you looked wrecked before, but you’re even worse now.”

“You think I don’t have reason?”

“That’s my point: You have too much reason. You need something closer to the ground.”

The conversation was coming back to him now. “That missing child you mentioned?”

“Right. My wife’s cousin’s little boy—Bandora.”

“Pandora?”

“No. Bandora, with a B as in boy. His parents are from Burundi and it’s a Kirundian name.”

“They’re Africans?”

Mal nodded. “Been here almost a year now. They’re both Tutsis whose own parents were driven out of Rawanda by the Hutu attacks. They settled in Burundi. My wife might have been born in South London but her family roots go back there.”

“And the boy?”

“He’s two years old and—”

“Two? Well he sure as hell didn’t walk away, did he.”

“No. That’s my point. No one saw him abducted, but that’s got to be it.”

“No ransom demand?”

“None. He’s been missing for over a week now and no word from anyone. The police are too tied up with plague to devote any attention to finding him. If there’d been a ransom demand, they might have acted, but I doubt it. His mother, of course, is inconsolable.”

As any parent would be. And the lack of police response was becoming a more and more common complaint. But with anarchy growing—he cringed at the memory of the scene outside the Singh house—and their ranks progressively thinned by desertion and disease... what could people expect?

“And you think I can find him?”

“I hope so. You’ve got a knack for that sort of thing.”

“A lot of good it did Rajiv Singh.”

“This is different.”

“You know the odds of finding him alive after seventy-two hours, don’t you?”

Mal closed his eyes and nodded. “I know. But there’s a story here, Nigel. I feel it deep in my bones. With all that’s going on, someone steals a child. Why?”

“Pervs don’t think like we do. The outside world doesn’t work on them like it does us. The internal world of their fucked-up obsession is in the driver seat.” He snapped his fingers as a thought struck. “You said his folks are Tutsis. Could this be a Hutu thing?”

He remembered Hutus killing something like 800,000 Tutsis in Rawanda back in the 90s. Why not?

“That was a systematic genocide. If this were Hutu-on-Tutsi violence, they would have entered the home and slaughtered them all with machetes. We’ve got something entirely other here.”

“Just a thought.”

Mal smiled. “You’re thinking about it, at least. A good sign. Let’s go. I’ll introduce you to the parents and you can get started.”

“Where?”

“Harrow.”

Nigel groaned and tried to think of something he wanted to do less. Failed. Yesterday had left him physically and emotionally knackered, but delving into this little mystery might provide some sort of distraction. God knew he needed one.

Right. God...the guiding hand behind all this. At least according to Abby.

“What are their names again?” Nigel said as Mal guided his Mondeo into a parking space on a residential street.

The drive had been uneventful but depressing as they’d headed north out of the center of the city. Although Harrow was only ten miles or so, not so long ago the journey would have taken the best part of an hour. The congestion charge had been introduced under the guise of reducing the traffic but was in fact just more revenue in government coffers; the flies had done more to clear the streets of traffic than it ever could.

The healthy work force, what was left of it, was being encouraged to work from home where possible. And in this awful heat if you had no air-con in your car you’d be royally screwed after a few minutes without opening a window. And no one drove in London with their windows open anymore. No one sane, at any rate.

Thankfully, Mal’s car was top of the range. The cool air hadn’t helped the chill Nigel had felt as they’d driven through the streets of Harrow. They passed a closed-down secondary school. The broken windows and bright graffiti adorning its walls proclaiming exactly what the ex-students thought of the place and several of its teachers. He couldn’t help but wonder how many of them were dead now. The plague wasn’t limiting itself to the inner city. It had reached Harrow too, and the numbers were rising.

“Gahiji and Uwimana Hakizimana.”

“Quite a mouthful.”

“Bantu-derived names tend to be long and usually mean something, though I don’t have the faintest what.”

They pulled on their gloves and ski masks and got out of the car.

Nigel couldn’t help a bitter laugh. “Look at us. Times have really changed, haven’t they. Just a few months ago we’d have been suspected of being assassins or, at the very least, up to no good.”

“Right. Now we’re just two blokes out in daylight.”

Mal led him up the walk to a two-story detached house with a brick front and bay windows on both floors. The place had to be worth nearly half a million quid.

“Wait. I got the impression they were refugees or something.”

Mal shook his head. “Uwimana—the mother—is a well-respected artist. Her paintings go for good money. They said they wanted to get away from all the tribal politics back home.”

He rang the bell and they waited. And waited. More ringing and knocking but still no answer.

“Should have called ahead, I suppose,” Nigel said.

Mal frowned. “I didn’t think it necessary. Uwimana told my wife one of them always stayed home because they were afraid to leave the phone unattended, in case somebody called.”

“Maybe someone did.”

“Maybe.”

He twisted the knob. It turned.

Nigel said, “Uh-oh. I’ve seen this movie.”

Mal nodded. “Me too. Maybe we’d better call the police.”

“Maybe. But first...”

Nigel walked over to the attached single-car garage. The wooden swing-up door was painted white to match the rest of the trim. He bent and tugged on the handle. The door angled up, revealing a dark blue 7-series BMW.

Mal came up beside him.

“Bugger.”

Nigel had to admit his curiosity was piqued. No, more than that—his antennae were quivering with alarm. Something going on here.

“Before we make that call, maybe you should stick your head inside and announce yourself. Just in case.”

Mal nodded. “Right then.”

Back at the door, Mal pushed it open, revealing a rather opulently furnished living room, and leaned across the threshold.

“Uwimana? Gahiji? It’s Mal—Malcolm Brown. Are you home?”

Nigel sniffed the warm, stale air flowing from within. It stank of... something. These folks were from equatorial Africa, so he could imagine them leaving their air-con off, but not with this stench.

“What’s that smell?”

Mal sniffed. “Something’s rotten...”

“...in the borough of Harrow.”

Not a carrion odor, though. And the living room looked fairly neat. Through an arch at the rear of the room he could see part of a formal dining room with the chairs all neatly arranged around a mahogany table.

“Looks all right,” Mal said, “but time to make that call, I think. I left my phone in the car.”

All Nigel’s story instincts were pushing against his back, trying to propel him through that door, but Mal had the lead here. He had just pulled his phone free of his pocket when Mal grabbed his arm.

“Wait. You hear that?”

“What?”

“Something thumped above the ceiling. Listen.”

Nigel strained to hear but the house was deathly silent.

“I get nothing.”

He began to dial but Mal grabbed his arm again. “I know I heard something. Let’s take a look.”

Nigel suppressed a fist pump. Thought you’d never ask.

Mal stepped inside, repeating his call-out. Still no answer. He pulled off his ski mask as he moved farther in. Nigel did the same. No use in terrifying anyone who might be here.

The living room and dining room were indeed neat and clean, but the kitchen...

Mal made a face. “There’s the rot.”

The contrast to the first two rooms was jarring. Dishes were heaped in the sink, a plastic rubbish bin overflowed, and take-away containers and spoiled food littered every horizontal surface.

“Place is a shambles,” Nigel said. “Looks like they’ve done nothing but order in. I know you said they didn’t want to leave the house, but—”

Mal headed for the stairs. “The sound came from the second floor, I’m sure of it.”

Nigel followed him up. The first bedroom they saw was obviously a child’s—empty—with guardrails on the sides of the single twin bed. The second was furnished as an office with a desk and computer and bookshelves. At the end of the hall—double doors, closed.

“There,” Mal said, pointing. “That’s right over the front room where I heard the noise.”

He stepped to the doors and knocked on the right one.

“Uwimana? Gahiji? It’s Malcolm Brown.”

A faint, raspy voice, barely audible, seeped between the doors.

“I’m coming in,” Mal said.

Nigel held his breath as Mal tugged the door open. No telling what they were walking into. Visions of tribal violence, blood-spattered walls, severed limbs, unimaginable carnage flickered against the back wall of his brain.

Instead, he saw a frail black couple sprawled on a filthy bed in a miasma of urine and feces.

“Dear God!” Mal said, inching forward.

“Are they...?”

Nigel held back. His stomach, already fragile from the hangover, threatened to add to the mess they’d walked into.

“Uwimana! Gahiji! What’s—?”

The man lifted a forearm and the woman spoke in a whisper. “Zahran.”

Mal whirled, eyes wide. “They’ve got the plague!”

Nigel still had his phone in his hand. “I’ll call it in. What’s the street address?”

After Mal told him, he punched in 999 and made the report. The woman he spoke to promised to send an ambulance “as soon as possible.” When he asked how long that would be, she repeated the phrase.

With the way things were, Nigel wondered if that even meant today.

Mal had moved to the bedside. “We’ve called for help. How long have you been sick?”

The man held up three fingers.

Mal glanced at Nigel with little hope in his eyes. Plague victims rarely last past the third day. Obviously too weak to get to the bathroom, they’d soiled their bed.

“Such foolish mistake,” the man said in a voice like a tree limb brushing a wall.

“What was?”

“Such price to pay,” was all he said.

“We called for help.”

The man gave a feeble wave. “Nooooo. We do not deserve.”

“Of course you do. We came to help find Bandora.”

The woman had looked comatose but she jerked at the sound of the name. “Bandoraaaaa,” she sobbed. “Zahraaaan.”

“What does Zahran mean?” Nigel whispered. He didn’t know why he whispered; maybe because their voices were so weak.

Mal shrugged. “Haven’t a clue.”

He tried to get more out of them but the man kept saying “We do not deserve” and the woman seemed limited to repeating, “Bandoraaaaa... Zahraaaan.”

Nigel glanced around the room, wanting nothing more than to flee the stench. He went to one of the windows and pulled up the shade. The screen beyond the glass looked intact—no holes. He pulled up the sash to let in some air. He did the same on the other side. The hot breeze helped clear the stink some.

He looked away from the two dying people on the bed. Unless Abby’s mythical God Himself intervened, it appeared Bandora would soon be an orphan. All the more reason to find him.

Nigel looked around. An array of paintings with lots of bright colors, especially red, decorated the walls. The wife’s artwork? He wandered to the dresser and saw two framed pictures of the parents—in one they dressed in traditional flowing African garb, in the other they wore more formal European attire.

But no photos of their child.

“Ask them if they’ve got a picture of the boy,” he said.

Mal did so and was rewarded with a “Bandoraaaaa” from the woman and racking sobs from the man. After a last look around, Nigel slipped out into the hall and went hunting. First stop: the child’s room.

Nothing special there. A collection of what he supposed were typical toddler toys—never having had a child, he couldn’t say for sure, but they seemed about right. No baby photos in sight, but...

On the wall, a charcoal sketch of a small child.

Could that be him? Well, who else would it be? It looked like something done by one of those itinerant sketch artists who dot the London parks, but probably done by his mother.

Mal came in behind him. “I tried to give them water but Gahiji’s getting agitated. And the more I tell him help’s on the way, the more—here, what’s that now?”

“Bandora, I assume. This look like him?”

Mal shook his head. “Never seen him.”

“I got the impression you knew—”

“They’ve never been very social, and always very protective of Bandora—almost obsessive about it. We thought perhaps he was disabled or had a learning disability of some sort.” He frowned. “In fact, I don’t think we ever saw Uwimana and Gahiji together.”

“If they’re with him all the time, then how in bloody hell did someone make off with him?”

“Good question.” He jerked a thumb back toward the master bedroom. “But I don’t think a detailed answer will be forthcoming anytime soon, if ever.”

“Why no photos?”

“I’ve heard some primitive East African people believe a camera can steal your soul.”

“Well, his parents don’t look primitive and they weren’t camera shy, so—”

“I told you: They were very protective of their child. Maybe—”

They both jumped at the sound of a gunshot.

“Christ!” Mal cried. “The bedroom!”

As he lurched toward the door, Nigel grabbed his arm. “Not so fast. The plague may have made him lose his mind. He may not recognize you.”

Mal nodded. “Right, right.”

Hurrying down the hall, they kept close against the right wall, out of the bed’s line of sight. When they reached the double doors, Mal peeked through and then slammed back against the wall.

“Jesus cunting Christ!”

Nigel sneaked a look. His throat locked.

Uwimana lay flat on her back, just as they’d left her, except the front of her nightgown was soaked with pale blood. Gahiji sat propped up next to her with a revolver pressed against the middle of his throat, high up under his jaw.

“We should not see God,” he rasped, and pulled the trigger.

His head flew back as the blast splattered blood and brains all over the wall behind him. Nigel felt his knees turn to water and he would have gone down had Mal not grabbed him.

“What the fuck!” Mal kept saying. “What the fuck!”

Nigel looked away and caught sight of one of the windows. Something was blocking the light. No, not something—many somethings. The screen was crawling with flies.

ABBY

Abby hadn’t been surprised to find Nigel gone by the time she got up, and not surprised by her own relief at that fact. Last night she’d promised to keep up the dialysis and she meant to keep that promise. But another way of letting go and letting God had occurred to her as she’d fallen off to sleep. So simple. Why hadn’t she seen it before?

As a result she’d had the best night sleep since her lupus diagnosis and she’d woken feeling rested and with a sense of both calm and purpose. She knew exactly what she had to do today, almost as if angels had whispered to her while she dreamed. Perhaps they had.

Nigel would see what she was doing as relinquishing all responsibility and giving up, not realizing that placing yourself truly in the hands of the Lord was taking the ultimate responsibility.

She made a cup of tea and used the last of the bacon for a sandwich. The fridge was nearly empty but they had a fair number of tins in the cupboards.

She didn’t bother with a shower but dressed simply in cut-off denim shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, and then dug her flip-flips out from under all her more protective footwear.

She was almost laughing as she grabbed her keys and wallet and headed out the front door. So good to have her skin free of layers of clothes, and when the outside warmth touched it she almost shivered with pleasure. She felt free at last. She felt perfect. She felt human. Strangely, she felt entirely alive.

The pavements were nearly empty, the oppressive heat too much for those still around to wander about covered in protective clothing. The few people she passed, wrapped up in the fear of their own mortality, pulled away from her, as if she was mad. She smiled at them though. She couldn’t help it. Her hair felt good in the sunshine and as she moved through the streets she thought London had never looked so beautiful.

She went through the back alleys around Upper Street first, hoping to find success among the large wheelie bins where the restaurants would dump their waste, but was disappointed. Trade had died and so had supplies, and the managers had become far tighter on hygiene, leaving nothing overflowing or rotting to be found. She walked to King’s Cross, smiling at the women who still loitered at various corners in states of undress, now armed with cans of fly-killer rather than mace. They didn’t smile back, instead viewing her with suspicion and menace, as if she was a fresh rival for whatever little trade was left.

Abby didn’t judge them. They would all be judged soon enough and by one far kinder and more understanding than she. She wanted to tell them to stop being afraid. She wanted to tell them a lot of things. Perhaps, if she got the chance, she’d come back and do just that. Spread the word.

She strolled down toward Baker Street and then wandered into Regent’s Park, heading toward the lake at the heart of it. The weather was heavy and midges buzzed round her head. They tickled but she didn’t swat them away. They were nature. They were His work, and all that aside it just felt good to be so unprotected that they could irritate her.

She had the park to herself. The pretty park cafe was closed. She wasn’t surprised. Dogs were being put down or abandoned because no one wanted to walk them anymore and romantic strolls in the park were a thing of the past. For a while she’d heard talk of rapes and attacks on those who still tried to maintain a normal routine, but now the rapists were either dead or didn’t think sex was worth exposing themselves to the plague. Abby felt as if she was the last person on earth.

For a while she lay on the grass and dozed contentedly, and when she finally sat up she checked her arms and legs but could find no sign of bites. Eventually she walked home, taking her time, waiting for God to find her if He so chose.

She paused at Mange Tout and bought a flat white to take away even though the mugginess in the air was getting heavier and she didn’t really want it. She drank it anyway, her thoughts clouding with the sky. She’d come out this morning with such certainty at how the day was going to pan out that now she couldn’t help feeling a slight sense of confusion and despondency. Perhaps He had not yet decided on her path. The caffeine rush on her empty stomach triggered a small wave of nausea and she picked up her pace a bit, sweat prickling her bare skin.

Only when she finally got home—to the house that didn’t feel so much like home anymore—did she hear buzzing. She paused at the front door, her heart thumping wildly, and then they landed in perfect unison. Three of them. On the arm she’d raised to slide the key into the lock. A few minutes earlier or later and she might have missed them.

She gasped as they bit as one, three needle stabs as each proboscis pierced her skin and drew a bit of blood, and then they were gone, darting away too quickly for her eyes to follow.

She stared for a long moment at the three minute punctures, three pore-sized drops of blood. Three bites at once. Did that mean something, a sign of some sort, the Holy Trinity perhaps? Better not to read too much into this. More likely so little exposed skin was out and about these days that the sight of it drew a crowd.

She couldn’t feel it, of course, but she knew that somewhere within her skin tiny molecules of fly saliva had attached themselves to red blood cells and were even now triggering a reaction. Antibodies would soon flood her bloodstream, attacking her red cells, lysing them and releasing their contents to clog up her already failing kidneys. The lifespan of those dear, oxygen-carrying reds would plunge from three-to-four months to a couple of days.

The reaction wasn’t like an infection, taking days and weeks to incubate. In its headlong rush to rid the body of the foreign saliva molecules, the human immune system overreacted and targeted the body’s red cells as well, treating them as invaders and beginning to destroy them within hours of the bite. When their number dropped below a critical level, her brain and heart and liver and kidneys would fail from asphyxiation.

At least that was what the “experts” reported. Her nurse training helped her understand what they were saying. They also said the visions of God in the victims’ last moments were hallucinations resulting from hypoxia.

Sometimes you had to read the “experts” with a grain of salt. She’d been at the bedside of too many of the dying in their last moments as they saw Him. They couldn’t all be having the same hallucination.

No, the visions were real. And now she would enjoy that sacred privilege.

And so it had begun. And right here, on her threshold. God’s work. The irony was that years ago God had sent her, unbidden, an autoimmune disorder in the form of lupus. Today she had helped Him give her another.

Somewhere in the distance she heard the spray trucks rumbling along the roads. They belonged to a different world now. She’d expected more fear, now that it was done, but all she felt was calm. A sense of “well, that’s that then,” as her mother would say when any calamity occurred, from breaking a cooking dish to her diagnosis of terminal cancer. That was that, then. The weight of the lupus was gone too. She doubted it had a chance of killing her now.

She looked to the heavens, said a silent prayer, and then went inside to wait for Nigel. She had to decide whether to tell him of the bites—absolutely not that she’d courted them—or simply let the symptoms begin.

NIGEL

Despite Nigel’s call about a murder-suicide, it took the police over an hour to send a single cop around. A young Special Constable named Fitch arrived with lights flashing but no siren and looked squeamish around the bodies. He took statements and said a crime scene team would be out soon.

When Fitch was done, Nigel said, “Were you at all involved in the matter of their missing child?”

Fitch frowned. “Missing child? When did that happen?”

“About ten days ago. You’re local?”

He nodded. “Harrow Central. Used to be part time, but with so many out—”

“And no one’s ever made mention of Bandora Hakizimana?”

He smiled. “Oh, I believe I’d remember that name, sir. No, no one.”

Odd.

Fitch called in again and looked frustrated. “The crime scene investigator is delayed. I’ll have to wait until he arrives.”

Nigel glanced at Mal who was sitting on the living room sofa gazing off into space as if trying to comprehend what had happened here. He’d known them, after all. Nigel was too wound up to sit. He went to the front window and stared out at the deserted, sunlit street. Still no sign of the DI.

As he was turning away he spotted a man standing in the shade between two of the houses across the street. He wasn’t doing anything, just standing... and looking Nigel’s way, as if watching the Hakizimana house.

Nigel leaned closer to the pane, trying to make out his features. He was dark, Indian maybe. His shadowed face... he looked familiar... almost like—

“Wha—?” He jerked back from the window as recognition hit him like a fist to the jaw. “No! It can’t—!”

“What’s up?” Mal said.

“No fucking way!” Nigel cried, leaping to the door and pulling it open.

He stared through the storm door at the spot between the houses—now empty. He shoved it open and ran across the street through the bright sunlight. He reached the shady spot where the man had stood. Not a trace of him now, but the unmown grass was flattened in a small area. He ran to the rear and scanned the backyards on either side. Empty.

He realized he was out in the open without his ski mask. Christ! Shaking his head, he hurried back to the Hakizimana house.

“Are you daft?” Mal said as he ducked back inside.

“I saw someone watching the house.”

“Where?”

Nigel stared through the door at that empty space. “Across the street. I could have sworn—” He stopped himself.

“Sworn what?”

Nigel shook his head. “He looked like Doctor Singh.”

“Fuck off!”

“No, I swear.” He was shaking inside. “I’m not talking just another Indian guy and they all look alike and that rubbish. I know Singh’s face—”

“You’ve never met him.”

“Seen enough photos and it was him!”

Mal sighed. “This was supposed to get your mind off that.”

“And it has, but I’m telling you, Mal—”

“Doctor Rajiv Singh is dead. They pulled his body from the embers. You’re seeing things, mate.”

Was he? Was he really?

He shook his head. “Well, if I am, it’s because of this house.” He turned and glanced at Constable Fitch. “All right if I step out for some fresh air?”

Fitch nodded. “Just don’t wander far. The DI might have a few questions.”

“If I wander anywhere it will be to Harrow Central about the boy.”

While Fitch had been questioning Mal, Nigel had removed Bandora’s sketch from its frame and rolled it into a cylinder. He took this along as he slipped on his gloves and ski mask and stepped out again. He kept watch across the street as he scooted directly next door to another brick house almost identical to the Hakizimanas’. Lifting his mask, he rang the doorbell but stayed outside the screen door. A frumpy, middle-age woman in a shapeless housedress answered. Her eyes were red and teary.

“Yes?” she said, squinting in the light.

“I’m helping the police with an investigation.”

“I saw the police car. Is something wrong?”

“There’s been an...incident at the Hakizimanas’.”

“Who?”

He’d been hoping she’d ask him in but she only stared through the screen. He pointed next door. “The Hakizimanas—your neighbors.”

“Oh, the black couple. Never knew their name. Have they got the plague?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She sobbed and pulled a tissue from her pocket. “It took my John last week.’

“I’m so sorry.”

“He went so fast.” She dabbed at her eyes.

“I shouldn’t be bothering you.”

“No, please. It’s good to have somebody to talk to.”

Poor woman.

“But you’ve seen them then? Your neighbors?”

“Now and again. The man, mostly. He gets the mail and opens and closes the garage door, and that’s all I see of him. They drive out of the garage and back in later.”

Nigel had a feeling this lady was a veteran shade peeper. He unrolled the sketch.

“Does this little boy look familiar?”

She shook her head. “Who is he?”

“The Hakizimanas’ child. We’re looking for him.”

Another shake of her head. “Never knew they had one.”

He left her. As he crossed the Hakizimanas’ front yard he watched across the street—no sign of anyone. Had he imagined that figure in the shade? He’d seemed so real.

He tried the house on the other side and found an elderly man wearing a portable oxygen concentrator with clear plastic tubing running past his nose. He knew less than the lady.

The DI in charge arrived. He looked tired and irritated; with the aid of their journalist credentials, he accepted the murder-suicide scenario with only a couple of follow-up questions.

He hadn’t heard that the Hakizimanas’ child was missing either.

“Time for a visit to the station,” Nigel said.

Mal nodded. “Bloody right.”

BBC:

Of all major industrialized cities, Tokyo appears to be faring the best. Strict pest control measures and quick interment or cremation of the dead have limited the urban impact of the plague. That is not true in the rural regions, however, and that is causing increasing concern. The rural situation, a ticking time bomb, is scheduled for discussion today in the National Diet.

NIGEL

Detective Sergeant Blake looked like he’d lost weight recently. His collar, though buttoned, hung loose around his neck. He knew of the missing boy and pulled the report.

“Came in a little over a week ago,” he said.

Nigel tried to read it upside down. “Bandora Hakizimana?”

“If that’s how you say it.” He shook his head. “Christ, get a human name.”

Nigel let that go. “Any progress?”

Blake gave him a bleak look. “You must be joking.”

“I assure you he’s not,” Mal said, letting some anger show. “And neither am I.”

Sergeant Blake reddened. “Look, I don’t know what planet you’re living on, but things around here have changed. We spend the nights chasing looters and the days moving the dead. That’s about all we have the time or people for—just had a murder-suicide of a couple of plaguers a couple of hours ago.”

“We know,” Nigel said. “The boy’s parents. We called it in.”

“Well, get this: Most of our officers—even DCI’s and above—are refusing to work in the daylight hours and are more involved with the looters at night. We’re operating half staffed on all shifts and things are getting worse by the hour. So guess what? Any missing person—even your Pandora Hakizaki—is low priority.”

“He’s just a kid,’ Nigel said. ‘And now he’s an orphan.”

Blake sighed. “Well, I’m sorry about that, but we don’t have the manpower to go knocking on doors.”

“Did they give you a photo at least?” Nigel said.

Blake rechecked the folder. “No. Maybe they said they’d bring one in later.”

“Who took the report?” Mal said. “Can we speak to him?”

Blake checked the report again and shook his head. “Crowley. He’s gone.”

“Where?”

“To the graveyard. Plague.”

When he and Mal were back in the car, Nigel said, “Do you think we might have a Virginia Woolf situation going on here?”

“What? Some bisexual thing? Bloomsbury? Where are you coming up with this?”

Nigel almost laughed. “No, sorry. I was talking about George and Martha’s son in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.”

Mal stiffened. “You think Bandora is imaginary?”

“Well, you’ve never seen him. Has your wife?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“The neighbors have never seen him either. There’s no photo of him at the house or in the police report. So I’ve got to ask: Was there ever a child at all?”

Nigel watched Mal chew his upper lip as he mulled that.

Finally he shook his head. “Uwimana was horribly upset that Bandora was missing, too much for just a delusion.”

Nigel couldn’t help thinking of Abby. “Don’t be too sure. Delusions can be stronger than reality. Or at least better.”

“Enough to go make out a police report?”

Again, thoughts of Abby. “If you’re really into a delusion, you’re into it. I never saw either of the Hakizimanas before today, but I have a damn strong impression they were heavily into something else.”

“What? Drugs? I don’t—”

“No. Guilt.”

Mal chewed his lip again. “You’re right. All the We-do-not-deserve nonsense. Where’d that come from?”

“Sounds like a ton of guilt to me.”

“It does. That’s what he said when I told him I’d called emergency services.”

“That’s another thing. Why didn’t they call for help when they came down with it? Everyone knows the symptoms now. Why did they stay home, waiting to die?”

Mal shook his head. “Because they didn’t ‘deserve’ help?”

“Not only help. His last line before he blew his brains out: ‘We shouldn’t see God.’ If that’s not guilt, then I don’t know what is.”

“But over what?” Mal looked at him and seemed to read his mind. “Shit.”

“Right. The boy. If there really was a boy. How do we find out?”

“Hospitals are no use because Bandora was supposedly two years old, and the Hakizimanas have been here less than that, so he wasn’t born here.”

Nigel snapped his fingers. “That means, if he exists, they brought him in with them. Immigration!”

Mal was smiling, nodding. “That’s it, that’s it! We’ve got contacts in the Immigration Service. I’ll get on the phone as soon as we get back.”

Nigel leaned back. He felt that curious tingle that told him something was going on... something that might want to avoid the light of day. And nothing he liked more than dragging something like that out into the open.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sg...

EXT: STONEHENGE—DAY

Close on the megaliths. The uprights as well as the lintels are black with flies, crowded so thick and close that no trace of the underlying sarcen stone is visible

Angle widens to reveal a thin, bearded black man standing bareheaded amid a swarm of flies on the bed of a pickup truck. He is dressed in a traditional maroon agbada embroidered with yellow and green. The loose sleeves fall back as he raises his bony bare arms to Heaven. His hands and fingers are severely gnarled.

Mungu man

(thick Swahili accent)

I am a Mungu, and I speak to you in the

name of God.

Angle further widens to reveal about two hundred people crowded close about the truck. They are covered head to foot in protective clothing. In stark contrast to the Mungu man, not a square inch of bare flesh is visible.

Mungu man

(shouting)

I hear people say that flies and plague are

not the work of God, but the work of the devil.

I say to you that it not so. Yes, Beelzebub

was prince of demons and Lord of Flies, but

this is different. These are not ordinary flies.

These are the Flies of the Lord. He created the

Plague to test you and He has created the flies

to bring it to you. The Plague is His judgment,

and you must accept the Lord’s judgment.

Do not hide from Him behind your wrappings.

Accept His judgment! Through the Plague He

will choose to draw you to His bosom or send

you forth, as he has done with me and my fellow

Mungu, to speak His truth.

With that, the Mungu man whips the agbada over his head and tosses it aside. He stands naked except for a loincloth. He has smeared his torso and legs with what looks like blood. Whatever it is, the flies dive for it and within seconds he is as coated with flies as the trilithons looming behind him.

A voice cries from within the buzzing mass.

Mungu man

Come! Show you faith! Bare youself to the

Lord’s judgment! Accept you fate!

Slowly, in singles and pairs at first, then in ever-growing numbers, the crowd begins to shed its protective layers. They raise their arms and cry out to heaven.

In the background, a massive cloud of flies lifts from the megaliths and swarms toward them. It blackens the air as it descends and engulfs the crowd. And above it all, the Mungu man’s voice can be heard crying out to heaven:

Mungu man

Praise be God! Praise be God!

NIGEL

Where most businesses were closed or operating with a skeleton staff, The Light was still plugging along, but at half throttle. The humdrum stories of governments and budgets and celebrities who’d got fatter or thinner in recent months had fallen away, overwhelmed by grim news of the domestic and international progress of the plague.

Not that journalists were braver than other people, but as Nigel knew himself, they spent so much time feeling like they were on the outside simply observing, most began to believe that they were immune from the strifes that hit the world. Including the plague.

He unrolled the picture of the missing boy and stared at it as his computer fired up. He preferred it to looking at the monitors around the room, most of which were showing the terrible fire and the mob at the Singhs’ house. Was it possible Bandora was still alive? The odds weren’t good. Missing children news stories rarely ended well.

“Nigel?”

He looked up to see both Toulson and Mal standing at his desk. Neither was smiling and Toulson’s face was tinged with red high in his cheeks—the normal indicator that something had royally pissed him off.

“Your doctor called...” he started.

“The etymologist from the museum,” Mal interrupted.

“Yeah, him. Apparently the change in the flies is unlikely to have anything to do with Singh’s research. ‘Random mutation,’ he called it. Fuck knows how he knows, but I guess that’s his job.” Toulson’s voice was low. “He said there were also at least four other research labs working in that area. Two American, one Chinese and one French. Did you know that?”

After a long pause, time almost freezing around him, Nigel shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. The few people close by had stopped working and were all listening into their boss’s conversation.

“Jesus Christ, Nigel,” Toulson spat the words. “What were you thinking? Why didn’t you wait until you had all the information until you brought this to us?”

The words stung, breaking Nigel’s moment of shock. “Hang on a minute. You wanted to see me as soon as I got back. And I didn’t break this. I was waiting.”

The realization was slowly hitting him. A slow-building tidal wave of nausea. Singh had done nothing wrong, not even accidentally, and now he and his family were all dead. Images filled his head. The desperation of trying to save their daughter regardless of their own safety. The futility of it against the mob filled with anger and hate. That small terrified girl being pushed back into the building.

Malcolm was talking, trying to calm Toulson, but all Nigel could hear was the crackle of flames and the shrieks of a terrified child. Why did he leave that thumb drive behind? Was it the champagne? Had that blurred him? One careless moment. A butterfly’s wings in the forest.

“We’re going to get roasted for this,” Toulson said.

Nigel stared at him, aghast at the man’s inept choice of words. Toulson didn’t even flinch. Fat. Stupid. Untouchable. That was Toulson. And Nigel had to work for him.

“You’re not making sense. We didn’t break the story.”

“But your research was used. Fingers are going to be pointing everywhere and—”

“The whole world is fucking falling apart and you’re worried about finger pointing?”

“Enough! I don’t want you near anything to do with the plague, do you understand? I’ve just paid your doctor friend twice what you offered him to make sure he stays quiet.”

He turned and stormed back to his office, leaving a wake of silence.

“He’s lost it,” Mal said. “Totally lost it. It wasn’t your fault.”

Nigel nodded. That wasn’t how it felt inside, though, however true it might be. A little girl burned alive because of his information...

He looked down at the picture again. A missing boy. A dead girl. Both too young to be guilty of anything in this fucked-up world. The girl was gone, but Bandora might still be alive. Maybe if Nigel could track him down... if he could put this one thing right then perhaps that would at least balance the scales a bit.

He knew what Abby would say: This was all God’s will, all His doing, an opportunity presented from on high.

Nigel sighed and fell back on chaos again. Chaos presupposed an observable system. Where was the system here? Tribal strife in Africa seemed the trigger. If things had been different in Burundi, the Hakizimanas might have stayed there with their son; but even with the strife, they could have emigrated and settled elsewhere, say, the Midlands. Little Bandora still might have gone missing but his disappearance wouldn’t have landed on Nigel’s doorstep. The little Singh girl would still be dead, yes, but Nigel wouldn’t have this chance to balance the scales.

Yet, the chain of events had run from the heart of Africa directly to Nigel’s lap. What do you call that? Symmetry? Determinism? Either way it gave him a chill.

The boy’s eyes stared dolefully from the sketch.

He wanted a drink. Several.

But no. Later maybe, but not now. He had to stick with this. What the fuck else was there for him to do that was in any way useful? He couldn’t save the Singhs, he couldn’t save Abby from her religiosity. Maybe this was his lifeline. Something to keep him sane in the swarm of madness swallowing up the world.

Nigel began his usual round of searches on the couple—analyzing the Hakizimanas’ lives from the paper trails left in their wake. By the time he’d escaped the office for a coffee and a call to Abby—no answer—and returned slightly calmer than when he’d left, his inbox had a few morsels waiting for him.

Raw data could tell you a lot about a person. The Hakizimanas had very few debts, and the two credit cards they used were always paid off, if not in their entirety each month, then pretty damn close. They did not live beyond their means, and if they had fictionalized their child then they were both sharing the delusion. Their shopping habits—mainly done online—showed up the usual items of toys and children’s books and toddler pull-ups bought at regular intervals.

He moved on, picking at the Internet and what it could give him. He typed in various spellings of “Zahran”, the word they’d cried out in their dying moments, before one led to a YouTube video of a crazy Mungu dressed as some kind of priest being consumed by flies and calling on his worshippers to do the same. Was that Zahran?

Great. More religion. Just what he needed. Was that Stonehenge? He was pretty sure it was. He watched the video again, fascinated by its macabre nature. It somehow reminded him of those old cult horror films like The Wicker Man. Was this some kind of Voodoo? Probably. The black man’s accent was thick; African not Arab, and his eyes were wild as he scanned the crowd. Plenty of people were buying into his madness, but Nigel couldn’t make out the Hakizimanas among them. At the end, a young man at the front dived in front of the camera, his face full of excited religious zeal, and shouted “On to Glastonbury! Glastonbury next!” and then the film ended.

Nigel noted down the date the video was uploaded and then searched the name again, but found nothing of any use. Whoever this Zahran guy was, his followers weren’t tweeting or blogging about him. Not that it mattered. He was gone now. Had to be. Mungu or not, no one could survive that many fly bites and not get the plague.

His inbox pinged again, and he closed down the search. The electoral register and council tax info was in. Both had the couple and Bandora listed as living in the Harrow home—so much for the idea of a George-and-Martha delusion—but along with someone else. Another Hakizimana. Jengo. Male.

His skin tingled as his journalistic hackles rose. Here was something. The man, about ten years younger than the couple, had lived with them for several months and then moved out five months previously.

Nigel dialed through to Mal’s desk.

“Yep.”

Mal sounded tired, and Nigel didn’t blame him.

“Did you ever meet a Jengo Hakizimana? I think he must have been Gahiji’s brother.”

“No. The name’s new to me. Why?”

“He stayed with them for a while. I’m going to track him down. See what he knows.”

“Great. Thanks. I think I’m going to be chained to my desk for a while managing both Toulson and this shit. I’m not sure I’ll be much help for a few days.”

“That’s okay.” Nigel was already tapping Jengo’s details into an email. “You know I’m better working on my own. And anyway, if I can trust anyone to cover my arse here, then it’s you. Toulson’ll hang me out to dry if it comes down to needing a scapegoat. The bastard will probably enjoy it too.”

HENRY

After knocking half a dozen times on the door to Alex’s flat, Jamie tried the knob. It turned and the door pushed in a bit.

“Uh-oh. That’s not good.” He glanced at Henry. “Alex’s got half a dozen locks on the inside.”

His brother’s old mate hadn’t shown up at the pub today—not that much was left to drink there anyway—and hadn’t been answering his phone. Jamie had been worried about him so he’d dragged Henry over to his flat to check up. Henry hadn’t wanted to come. He feared going out in public, but Jamie had insisted.

They’d switched their bee hats for ski masks. The bee hat had hidden his face from the TV cameras in Camden or else he’d have been nicked by now for sure. Since Camden anyone with a bee hat was under suspicion, so they’d left theirs home.

With a worried look at Henry, Jamie said, “Here goes,” and pushed the door.

It swung open to reveal Alex lying in a recliner under a tattered blanket in the front room. He looked a mess, all pale and exhausted. His unwashed gray hair had gone stringy and bits of food—was that fried rice?—dotted his beard. He held a carving knife in his hand.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said with a relieved expression.

A laptop sat on the blanket. Arrayed around him on the wall were posters from The X Files (“The Truth Is Out There”), Close Encounters, Red Dawn, and Enemy of the State.

His expression hardened as he spotted Henry. “You’re all right, Jamie, but here, what’re you thinking, bringing that bloody maniac ‘round to my place?”

Henry couldn’t meet Alex’s angry stare. He hadn’t been able to make eye contact with anyone except Jamie since Camden. Had it only been yesterday? Jamie understood—well, said he did. A little. Henry had no clear memory of the incident, but he’d seen the horrific YouTube video and recognized himself. How could he have committed such an atrocity? What had he been thinking?

Well, no, he hadn’t been thinking—that was the problem. He remembered a red rage, a blinding rush toward vengeance, but he didn’t remember lifting that child and tossing her back through the window into the flames. It seemed unimaginable now.

“We ain’t heard from you,” Jamie said. “And you ain’t been answering your phone.”

“I been feeling sick,” Alex said.

“You could still answer your phone.”

“No, I can’t.” Another hard glare at Henry. “Someone tracked me down. Saw me with that monster there on the video and been ringing me up.”

“They saw your face because you were only wearing that little surgical thing,’ Jamie said. “And that’s why you’re sick, innit. You been running around all this time without protection and got yourself bit by a fly.”

“Weren’t no fly and this ain’t no plague. Just feeling a bit rough, that’s all.’ He pointed to a couple of bottles on the table beside the chair. ‘I got the preventology for the plague right here. Megadoses of C and E.’

Henry repressed a disgusted head shake. This twat believed the weirdest loads of cobblers. And he had the plague, sure as shit. This was the way Henry’s Maggie and Livvy had started with it.

“Where’d you hear that rubbish?” Jamie said, echoing his thoughts.

Alex patted his laptop. “Internet. Gotta know the right sites to get the straight dope.” He put the computer aside and held out a hand. “Here, mate. Help me up then. I gotta hit the loo.”

As Jamie pulled Alex out of the chair and helped him down the hall, Henry glanced at the laptop screen and wondered what the dying man—not that he’d admit it—was watching. He leaned over and saw a YouTube video. He started to jerk back, afraid it was the one from last night in Camden, but no, this was different. This had Stonehenge in the background and was freeze-framed on a man up front...

A man covered in flies.

Fascinated, Henry tapped the touchpad and the scene came to life. Some African telling everyone to go out and let the flies bite you. Well, that was pure bollocks, but that man... with his coat of flies... Henry couldn’t look away. An idea began to form.

No, more than an idea. A plan. It exploded in his head like a supernova. He knew exactly what he had to do.

NIGEL

It didn’t take long to get what he needed. Everyone was trying to claim something these days and Jengo Hakizimana was no different. His income support and housing benefit were registered to a flat on a grotty estate a few miles from where his brother’s family had lived and by late afternoon Nigel was standing outside it.

The lift was covered in graffiti and stank of urine and so Nigel took the stairs. By the time he reached the fourth floor he was drenched in sweat under his heavy layers. The corridors and stairwells were eerily empty of bored kids looking for someone to harass and the contained heat had made them unbearably humid. He pulled off his ski mask and breathed with the relief of it. They were all living in fear, and that had unified the nation somewhat, but as he knocked on the door, Nigel was glad that he was living in fear under better circumstances.

No one answered, and he knocked again, louder this time. Inside, music throbbed loud and low with a heavy street R & B sound. Finally someone fiddled with locks and latches on the other side. A heat wave escaped the darkened doorway, carrying a heady mix of sweat and ganja smoke as a thin girl of about twenty-five frowned at him.

“Yeah?” the girl said. “Did Freddie send you? Have you got the stuff?”

Her blond hair was pulled back in an untidy pony tail and her joggers sat on her hipbones. Her vest T-shirt stopped at her belly button, leaving a few inches of skin bare. Nigel suddenly felt very over-dressed.

“I’m looking for Jengo. Is he here?”

“Freddie didn’t send you?”

“Sorry, no. It’s about his family. It’s important.”

“He’s not here.”

“Is it Freddie?” A male shout came from somewhere behind her. Slurred. Lethargic.

“Look, can I come in?” he said.

The girl frowned again. In her stoned state she was clearly having a problem computing that he wasn’t Freddie, whoever the fuck that was.

“Okay,” she nodded, relieved to have made a decision.

She stepped aside to give him room before closing the door behind him, sealing them in the gloom. All the curtains and blinds were closed and Nigel didn’t mind. From what he could make out it wasn’t as if anyone was taking too much care of the place. He followed her into a room that could have been a bedroom or lounge originally, but now had a small portable TV in the corner and two mattresses on the floor against each wall. The floor was littered with cans and drug paraphernalia, torn up cigarette packets, Rizlas and lighters and, to the side of one of the makeshift bed/sofas, a couple of small crack pipes, their bowls darkly stained.

Two men in jeans and sweatshirts sat cross-legged on one mattress and one was skinning up. At least they weren’t on the crack. He’d never get any information out of them.

“He’s looking for Jeng,” the girl said, dropping to the other mattress.

Nigel didn’t sit down. The flies outside were bad, but fuck only knew what was living in those stained beds. He stood with his back to a grimy window and faced them in the dying light.

“He’s not here,” one of the men said.

He lit the spliff and drew in heavily. Food supplies were dwindling but drugs were still plentiful. Amazing. Nigel sensed no menace in the room. They might be druggies, but they weren’t dealers.

“Yeah, I get that,” Nigel said. “I need to speak to him. His family... his brother... he’s dead. A kid’s missing.”

“Shit, man.”

“Everyone’s dying,” added the other youth, a white kid with a bad case of acne, and shook his head wearily as if he’d said something truly profound.

“Do you know where he is?” Nigel asked.

He focused on the black man with the joint. He seemed the straightest. Not that there was much in it.

“Been gone a week.” He looked over at the girl. “That’s about right, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I think. Maybe a little longer. After his last giro got paid.”

Just over a week. Ten days? That was when the boy vanished. Could Jengo have taken him? Maybe that was why the parents felt so guilty as they were dying. They’d trusted their child to someone and they were wrong.

Nigel tried to keep his tone light. “Do you know where he went?”

She sniggered at the question and leaned over and took the joint.

“What’s funny?”

“He tripped out, didn’t he, Sam. Kept saying he had something that was going to save us all.”

“He lost it,” said Sam, the black man. “Cloud crazy. Talking about ‘mungu’ and ‘old ways’ and shit like that. Don’t know where he went.”

The white kid said, “Didn’t he mention Glastonbury or something?”

The girl sniggered again. “Glastonbury? As if. There’s no Glasto this year.”

“Told us he’d be back though,” Sam said. “To save us.” His turn to laugh.

“Did he say what he’d found?”

Sam shrugged. “Didn’t really listen. He was out a lot. Just talked mad shit.”

Nigel thought back to the YouTube video and the dying couple’s last words.

“Did he mention a Zahran ever? That word mean anything to you?”

“No, man, sorry,” Sam said.

The white kid came out of his haze. “Yeah, he did. Yeah, I heard him say that. He was chanting some shit. That word was in it.”

“Religious chanting?”

The kid looked at him like he was stupid. “What other kind of chanting is there?”

He had a point.

“Anybody got a picture of him?”

“As if,” the girl said again. “Hey wait.”

She pulled out her phone—an older iPhone—and did a lot of thumbing. Finally...

“There.” She handed it to Nigel. “Group portrait.”

He saw four people grouped around a bong, grinning. Three of them were right here in the room. The fourth had a very black face and a very blond afro.

“That’s him with the bleached hair?”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Tries to tell you that’s the real color but we know he bleaches it.”

Nigel handed back the phone. As they skinned up some more and carried on waiting for the mythical Freddie, he gave them twenty quid, throwing it down on the floor rather than touching any of them.

As he turned to make his exit he glanced out the window and saw someone who could only be Rajiv Singh staring up at him from the shadowed pavement across the street, four stories below.

He bolted for the door and raced down the stairs, almost tripping twice in his haste. When he reached the street the man was gone.

He stood there panting, eyes closed. Was he losing it? He didn’t believe in ghosts, so was he totally hallucinating, or simply putting Singh’s face on other people? He hadn’t been masked or gloved like everyone else. Had to be a hallucination.

He shook it off. Forget Singh—no, never forget him, but put him aside for now and center on that little boy. He focused on the kernel of excitement in his stomach.

Too many links for coincidence. Jengo had left his doper friends around the time the boy went missing and he had a thing for this Zahran character. Maybe Jengo was in some drug psychosis that made him think the boy was a kind of messiah. Someone who could save them all? No great leap from Abby’s own resolute fatalism. Could Jengo have taken the boy and gone looking for Zahran?

Suddenly Nigel felt the drive of energy that came with seeing the pieces start to fall together. He was going to find that boy. And save him from his crazy uncle.

ABBY

The afternoon had passed slowly as Abby waited for Nigel to come home, a small knot of anxiety growing in the pit of her stomach. Not of fear for herself—she was quite at peace with whatever fate God chose for her—but because she knew that whatever problems they’d had recently, beneath it all, Nigel still loved her. This would hurt him terribly, and she hated that.

Outside, the day grew heavier and more humid, as if the spirit of the coming storm were seeping through the clouds and into the air close to the ground and the pressure was too oppressive to do anything more than just sit. For a while she’d watched the TV. Live shows were few and far between—too many on-screen talent and off-screen crew sick, she imagined. They re-ran old sitcoms instead, but she couldn’t focus and in the end turned it off, preferring the quiet peace.

She’s thought about having a glass of wine but in the end sat and drank hot tea in the kitchen and listened to the clock ticking the minutes away as the sky became a darker gray. The storm would come tonight, as inevitable as a fight with Nigel, and she wanted both to be over.

Three days. She could feel the steady thump of her heart pulsing gently through her. Strange to think three days might be all she had left. Two really. By the third most victims weren’t entirely conscious. Not until the end anyway. She shivered slightly with a tingle of excitement. Not until they saw the light. God. Him.

Was it wrong that she was looking forward to it? She felt like a sheep that had been lost on a mountainside in freezing winter and had finally found its way back to the flock. She wondered when she’d notice the symptoms, and felt the first flutter of nerves. Not because she was sure death was coming to find her, but because she hoped it wouldn’t be too painful. She’d heard that the plague was relatively kind to its victims. She’d find out soon enough. Hearsay was becoming her reality. The plague was now her plague.

“Abby?”

She jumped slightly as the front door closed and Nigel’s footfalls came fast along the corridor.

“Abby? Where are you?”

“In here.”

“Two ticks, I’m desperate for the loo.”

He sounded different. The resigned tone that he normally tried hard to disguise when he got home was gone. After the tragedy of the Singhs she’d expected him to be in black mood. What had happened?

She got up and pulled two wine glasses down from the cupboard. Sod the tea. This was going to take something stronger.

She’d decided to tell him about the bites. But how? She’d just have to blurt it out. She needed to tell him during whatever good mood he was in. She wanted him to stay with her while she died. Not for her own comfort, although it would also bring that, but because perhaps if he saw her interaction with God then he would finally realize that all this is His work. Part of His plan. Maybe her role in all this was to bring Nigel into the light? Not such a crazy thought. If ever a man needed saving, if only from himself, Nigel was it. He’d always railed so hard against the world. Perhaps it was time he had some peace.

The toilet flushed and few moments later he joined her, taking the glass.

“We need to talk,” he said.

Oh boy, do we.

“There’s this kid,” he carried on after a long sip of wine. “He’s gone missing. Only two years old. Part of Mal’s extended family. His parents died this morning, but I think he’s been taken by a relative. I think I can find him. It’s a long shot I know, but after everything that’s happened—the Singhs, their little girl—I just think maybe, maybe this is one good thing I can do. Something real. Something that actually matters.”

His words were coming out in a rush and she found their content mattered less than the energy behind them. She hadn’t seen Nigel this motivated—this alive—in a long time. She might not be the old Abby but he sounded like the old Nigel.

“You know where they’ve gone?” she asked. Her fly bites itched, urging her to release the truth.

“The southwest I think. Glastonbury. There’s some cult moving around. Going there next I think. I need to do some more digging into the man who’s taken him, but I’m pretty sure that’s where he’s gone.”

“You’re going after him?” she asked, sipping her own wine. Her mouth was dry.

“I’d like to.” For the first time his voice lost some of its power. “But frankly I’m afraid to leave you after...”

The sentence drained away and she saw the conflict in his face. He didn’t want to argue any more than she did. Suddenly, the truth of the situation struck her, and as it did, rain began to fall in thick drops outside, tapping against the window.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said, keeping her eyes on his as she lied. “Been there, didn’t do that. Won’t even think of doing that again. Really, I’m sorry. It was a stupid thought.”

“You’re sure?” he asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Very sure.”

That wasn’t a lie. It was suddenly becoming clear to her that her path and Nigel’s were not the same. If she told him now that she’d been bitten, he wouldn’t leave. And then who would go after the boy? Surely, saving one innocent life in the midst of all this was a mission from God Himself, even if Nigel didn’t realize it yet. She needed to let him go. He needed to find his own way into the light. She was surprised at how much that hurt her heart. The idea of him leaving and never seeing him again.

Not in this world at any rate.

“You think this child is in danger?” she said.

“We’re all in danger, but yes.” He looked at her. “It probably sounds crazy, but I can’t help but think that if I can find him, get him back to Mal and his family, then maybe, just maybe, something will be right in the world.”

“Then you should do it.” She smiled, softly. “You have to.” He watched her thoughtfully and she forced her smile into a grin. “I’ll be on the other end of the phone line. We get on better that way, anyway.”

He looked at her. “Are you sure?”

His mind was made up, she could see that, and she needed to release him from his guilt.

“Absolutely.” She meant it. “This is a good thing you’re doing. And if anyone can find him, you can. I trust you.”

“I love you, Abby,” he said, after a moment, and then stood up and pulled her close.

Such a long time since he’d done that so willingly and she could have burst into tears against his chest.

“I love you too, Nigel.” She drank in his scent and then pushed him away gently. “You’d better go and pack then. If you’re going to be traveling then you’ll be safer at night.” She glanced out at the darkening sky. “Especially in a storm.”

He was already on his phone, to Mal probably, and heading up the stairs by the time she’d finished her glass of wine. She’d go to church when he’d gone. Help those who were afraid. Pray for Nigel. Pray for all of them on their solitary paths. She just hoped that his would lead him to the light. That they could be there together.

NO PLAGUE IN NORTH KOREA

(For Immediate Release)

PYONGYANG - the Health Ministry of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea has announced to the world that North Korea has yet to experience a single case of the mysterious plague infecting the capitalist world. This is attributed to the superior vermin control practiced by the citizens of North Korea under the guidance of their illustrious leader, Kim Jong-Un, who has forbidden infected flies from crossing into North Korean airspace. Due to his lustrous influence, the workers’ paradise that is the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea remains gloriously free of the plague.

ABBY

Nigel closed the front door just as the first flash of lightning cracked the sky outside. She went upstairs and watched him from the bedroom window, leaving the lights off so he wouldn’t glance up and have second thoughts about going. His head was down against the rain as he jogged across the street and the indicators flashed on the Audi before he’d even reached the pavement. Within thirty seconds he was out of view behind the wheel and gone. That was that.

Abby didn’t move. She waited to feel something. Not the sudden emptiness of the house around her. She’d expected that now that her husband had left and their home was likely to become her tomb. She waited to feel something shift inside her from well to unwell.

She pulled up a chair and sat by the window. Something mesmerizing about watching the storm crashing across the city and the heavy sheets of water pounding the empty pavements below. Most likely this would be the last storm she ever saw. In the houses opposite she could just make out a tiny glow of yellow here and there escaping from the tiniest cracks in the curtains and shutters and netting. Many people had all three. It made her half-smile. Flies weren’t that easy to keep out. Just like their God.

Her mind drifted until, an hour or so later, the storm finally moved on, its rage quieting until all she could hear was the occasional echo of thunder in the distance. Water hung in ragged drops from every surface outside. Abby stretched in the chair and got to her feet. She still felt perfectly fine and now she was restless. She pushed open the window. Even after the rain the air was still hot and sticky and she stretched one arm out like a child to feel it. It felt good.

She grabbed her keys but didn’t take her wallet. Nothing would be open this late, and hardly anything was left to buy anyway. She’d started a subconscious clock after the bites and it was ticking backward from seventy-two. By the time it hit twelve she’d probably be all but unconscious. After church she’d go to the hospital and do what she could to comfort the dying... before she joined them and the Lord claimed her. She missed Dr. Kumaran—they said he’d come down with the plague—but that meant they needed her more than ever.

NIGEL

The drive out of London was a sobering one. The streets should have been clogged with Saturday night traffic, and the downpour should have royally snarled it. But he cruised unimpeded through the rain.

The city itself had gone into shutdown, and though the news on the radio declared that everything was under control, clearly it was not. The flies were in control.

He wondered how it could have reached this point so quickly. How many others had come through the airports like the man he’d seen at Heathrow. Some would be religious nutters and others would just be bitter people who didn’t want to go out alone. Humanity was its own worst enemy—to believe that a caring God was at work in all this was madness of the highest order. At least if Abby stayed inside, she’d be relatively protected.

As he hit the motorway, the storm waned but the overhead lights hadn’t come on, leaving only the rare set of headlights coming the other way to brighten the journey. He turned off the radio and zoned out in the silence, letting time tick by as he drifted between memories of before and now and how much the world had changed. He found he wondered what would be after, and whether he’d even be a part of it.

Sheep dotted the fields like clouds on a dusky sky, and in the growing gloom cows called to each other, the sound an ache. Unmilked, Nigel thought. Unmilked and unaware.

He tried the radio again and found some terrible 80s compilation of hits, including REM’s “It’s the End of the World.” Trouble was, he didn’t feel fine.

He was glad when he finally pulled into the drive of Meare Manor. He’d done an Internet search before leaving and had settled on this two-story stone hotel as his base of operations. Situated on the moors a mile or two northwest of town, the small estate had once served as the summer retreat for the monks at Glastonbury Abbey.

Night now having fallen, he parked as close to the entrance as possible and pulled on his ski mask and gloves before grabbing his bag and laptop to run inside, closing the door firmly behind him. Checking in didn’t take long. He was the only guest they had, and the woman who explained breakfast and dinner—apparently food was still in decent supply out here in the country—and got him a glass of wine to take to his room, was almost desperately happy to see him; as if having a guest was a return to normalcy.

Nigel was happy to close his bedroom door behind him and have some peace. His room was spacious, with a king bed and a little sitting area and a couple of easy chairs. A flat-screen TV hung on the wall. At another time he might have appreciated it all, but the world was turning too crazy too fast, and all he wanted was a shower and a good sleep before focusing on his search for Bandora.

SUNDAY

NIGEL

He slept far later than he’d meant to. A quick phone call to reception and breakfast came on a tray to his room, courtesy of a teenage boy—probably the owner’s son. When he was finished and showered he headed out with Bandora’s picture to ask the locals if they’d seen the boy. It was nearly midday and the summer warmth was stifling in all his protective clothing.

The tor loomed over the village, its green curves bright in the sunlight, and at its peak he could see the tower, all that remained of an ancient church. He’d half-expected to see Zahran and his followers gathered there, given the place’s reputation as a holy and spiritual site, but nothing but empty nature gazed down on him. He focused on his search. Looking for the boy was all he had, and he was determined to find him.

Three hours later and his determination was eaten up by his frustration.

“Total fucking waste of time,” he muttered, pulling his gloves off with his teeth before starting the car again.

After fruitless attempts to show Bandora’s sketch to the few locals he could find, he’d called it a day. Most weren’t answering their doors, and the local pub was closed. Those he’d managed to pin down for a few minutes were eager to get rid of him and barely glanced at the picture. A lot of people had passed through, they said. But no, they hadn’t seen him, or a young black man with bleached hair. The place was a virtual ghost town. Without tourists coming through and with no music festival, businesses had closed. Whereas it might have been home to eight or nine thousand folks a few months ago, now he’d be surprised if the locals numbered a thousand, and nothing was happening.

Then again, maybe Bandora wasn’t here at all. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be. The video had said Zahran was coming to Glastonbury but it hadn’t said when. Maybe they hadn’t arrived yet.

Still, he pounded his frustration against the steering wheel as he turned into the driveway along the side of Meare Manor. He wanted to find the boy and get back to Abby in London.

He parked around the back and entered through the rear. On his way to the stairs he glanced in the dining room where afternoon tea was being served to a solitary man, a new arrival at the hotel perhaps. Nigel stopped cold. The man, sitting with his back to him, had slightly wavy black hair and a dusky complexion. God damn, if it wasn’t the Indian who’d been dogging him. Well, he wasn’t getting away this time.

Nigel strode up behind him and grabbed his shoulder.

“What the hell are you—?”

The startled face that looked up at him was Indian, all right, but had a thick mustache and bore not the slightest resemblance to Rajiv Singh.

“I beg your pardon?” he said, blinking nervously.

“Oh, Christ.” Embarrassed, Nigel raised his hands and backed away. “Sorry-sorry. Thought you were someone else. My bad.”

Shaking his head, he found the stairs and trotted up to the second floor. He dropped into one of the easy chairs and pulled out his phone. Abby answered on the second ring.

“‘Lo?”

“You sound tired.”

“Dialysis always tires me out. You know that.”

He did. She’d been doing five hours up to five days a week, and it always left her knackered.

“How’s it going there?” she added.

“Miserable.”

He vented some of his frustration while she made sympathetic noises, then he turned it back to her—or rather, them. They did get along better when apart, and absence did indeed make his heart grow fonder. Last night, alone here in that big bed, he realized he hadn’t truly appreciated how much she meant to him until he’d been faced with the prospect of her death.

“I’m so glad you’re taking care of yourself, Abby. You... you mean the world to me.”

He didn’t know how he’d expected her to respond, but he hadn’t expected a sob.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said with a shaky voice.

“Then—?”

“Please don’t be nice to me.”

Baffled, he said, “I don’t understand.”

Her little laugh sounded forced. “Oh, ignore me. It’s that time of the month and along with the dialysis my head’s all over the place. I just need a good night’s sleep.”

After a little more small talk Nigel let her go. She did sound tired. He hoped that was all it was. Worry niggled at him. Something in her voice... How bad had London got overnight?

He turned on the TV for distraction and was shocked to find half the stations off the air. There was his answer. He hadn’t tuned in since before leaving for Africa. Everything really was falling apart, wasn’t it. And here he was in deserted, godforsaken Glastonbury searching for a kid who probably was somewhere back in London.

“Fuck it!”

He turned off the TV and fired up his laptop. At least the Internet was still working. He did what he did every time he sat down at a computer of late: hit Google and searched for Zahran. And every time he was rewarded with the same old links, all colored mauve because he’d already clicked on them.

No, wait. Here was a blue one—a YouTube video posted just today—less than an hour ago. It took his anxious index finger three tries on the touchpad before the arrow landed on the link. He clicked and a few seconds later a wizened figure appeared on the screen. Nigel knew that wild salt-and-pepper hair and even grayer beard from repeated viewings of the first video. Same voice, same Swahili accent, even the same words as he raised his arms.

I am a Mungu, and I speak to you in the name of God...

Nigel had a momentary sinking feeling as he realized Zahran was wearing the same maroon-yellow-green agbada as before and standing on the same pickup truck. Was this the old Stonehenge appearance shot from a different angle? But no... no megaliths behind him this time. Some other sort of stone ruins—

“Christ!”

He jumped up and headed for the door. They weren’t going to the Tor, at all. That had been shot in the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey—not three miles from here.

ABBY

She hadn’t been sure she’d know when the plague symptoms hit. She didn’t see much point in doing dialysis if the plague was going to carry her off, so she’d already been feeling crummy. Her fatigue and general malaise weren’t from the plague; it took a while for it to drop the blood count significantly. Besides, despite the marrow booster injections she’d been getting, she was already anemic from the kidney failure.

But the plague wasn’t sneaky. The aches came during the night, and when they hit—with flulike severity—she knew she was on her way.

She’d read enough articles in the papers and online, and talked to enough victims about the early signs. The widespread muscle aches were due to the rupturing red cells releasing all their hemoglobin into her bloodstream. Strange to think of all those tiny explosions going off inside her. Her body was a universe in itself, and soon she would leave its mysteries behind and become part of a more glorious existence. A new life, in the light of the Lord. If only she didn’t have to leave Nigel behind. But then, given the way the world was crumbling around them, their separation was bound to be short-lived.

She’d hated lying to him about the dialysis, about her period, but what choice did she have? If she told him she had the plague he’d abandon his search and rush back to be at her side. He needed to find that boy. Maybe if he could feel redeemed in his own eyes, he could find redemption in the Lord when the inevitable time came.

Still, her joy at becoming closer to God was dampened by all the things she wanted to tell Nigel, her husband in the eyes of God and the love of her life, but would never get to say.

Wait...Nigel’s camera took videos. She could record herself; she could say all the things she wanted him to hear, explain why she’d chosen this path. She could say good-bye and...

Yes. A fizz of energy ran through her tired bones. She had to find the camera and get this done while she still had the strength. Tomorrow might be too late.

NIGEL

What’s Zahran doing? Nigel thought as he drove through the center of town. Touring the country’s religious sites? In some respect that made sense. If he considered himself the savior of mankind then it would be natural to go to places believed to possess spiritual worth. Perhaps as the news of his journey spread, more desperate followers would show up in the hope of escaping death.

Nigel hoped he was still there. He hadn’t checked the abbey grounds earlier, figuring if the town was damn near deserted, the ruins would be even less populated.

As the only car on the road, he made excellent time following the signs to Abbey Park. He found the parking lot—no shortage of spaces—and adjusted his ski mask before stepping into the twilight. He spotted some of the ruins above the trees and so he headed that way.

He’d expected to find Abbey Park as deserted as the rest of the town but when he came round a thick oak trunk he found a sort of canvas city instead. He stopped and surveyed the motley assortment of tents and even a few RVs. It was like the ghost of Glastonbury festival—but with bands like the Grateful Dead or Phish—except no music filled the air and no one looked too happy.

A man in camo fatigues stood outside a pup tent sucking on a joint though the mouth hole of a black balaclava, filling the air between them with the smell of tobacco mixed with the sweet herb.

“Is Zahran still here?” Nigel pulled out the picture of the boy. He had no time for dicking around. “I think he might be able to help me find this kid.”

The guy stared at him. “It’s you.”

“What’s me? This boy’s name is Bandora. He’s missing.”

“No, I mean, they been lookin’ for you.” The man turned and hurried off to the right. “Oi, Rachard! Boynt! That bloke you’re lookin’ for—’e’s ‘ere!”

Looking for me? Nigel thought with a pang of uneasiness. No one knew he was in Glastonbury except Abby—not even Mal. And even if someone did know, why would they be looking for him?

Oh, the sketch, of course. Word must have gotten back about him. But why would the sketch interest them that much? Unless...

The stoner returned with a skinny black guy sporting thick dreads and a beefy white baldy, neither wearing shirt nor mask.

“Walked right up to me and asked me about the Mungu, ‘e did. Showed me the picture, as well.”

“Yeah, it’s him all right,” said the black with a faint Jamaican accent. “Or at least he’s wearing the same mask. You been showin’ pictures of a kid around?”

Nigel sensed a certain amount of tension coiling around the two. Why? He was hardly the intimidating sort.

“Well, not pictures, exactly,” Nigel said, emphasizing the plural. “But this sketch—”

“You’re the one then,” the black said, grabbing his arm. “Right. You’re coming with us.”

Nigel pulled back. “Whoa. Coming where?”

“Didn’t you want to see the Mungu?”

“I wanted to see Zahran.”

“Same difference. He wants to see you too.”

“Good. We’re all on the same page then.” He pulled his arm free. “But I’ll walk on my own, thank you very much.”

“Fair enough.” He nodded toward the white guy. “But you’ve got to let Boynt here pat you down.”

“Why? I’m not here to hurt anyone.”

“I’m sure you aren’t, brother. But the plague’s made a lotta people crazy out there. We gotta be careful.”

Nigel raised his arms and Boynt did a quick but efficient pat down. A former copper maybe?

“Let’s go,” the black guy said, leading the way.

“I’m Nigel.” He figured giving them his name wouldn’t hurt. He glanced over his shoulder. “Boynt?”

“Boynton.”

“First name?”

“Last.”

Talkative sort.

“And so you must be Rachard. Interesting name.”

“If you say so, mon.”

He didn’t look back and Nigel moved a little closer to him as they wound their way among the ramshackle arrangement of tents and trailers and RVs. Here and there large candles on sticks burned and several fires blazed in old drums, sending shadows and light across the makeshift community. “How long’ve you been camped here?”

“A while.”

Details were going to be hard to get out of his companions it seemed.

“I saw a video of your Mungu at Stonehenge—”

“That was a while back. Hardly anyone who was there is left.”

“The plague?”

He nodded without turning. “Some. And some crazy pagans turned up claiming Stonehenge was theirs. But the plague got most, yeah. But that’s all changed now that we’ve got the Cure.”

The dopers had mentioned Jengo talking about a cure. Not that Nigel believed it for a minute, but he decided to play along.

“A cure? Really? Shouldn’t you be sharing it with the world?”

Rachard was shaking his head as Boynt spoke from behind. “Ain’t enough to go ‘round.”

“Believers only, mon,” Rachard added. “Believers only.”

They stopped before a larger tent that sat in the shadow of what once might have been the entrance to the abbey and where two burly men in combats stood either side of the flap, neither disguising the handguns tucked into their belts. If the boy was inside, Nigel wasn’t going to be able to grab him and run. One of them held up a tent flap and Rachard said something through it before nodding back at Nigel.

“You can see him.”

Nigel stepped into the tent—and fought to keep from recoiling at the stench. Sweat—yeah, he’d expected that with no showers available—but something else too... something rotten. A quick scan of the interior showed a kerosene lantern, a small table, a couple of suitcases, and a bedroll. Nowhere to hide a little boy. The man himself was sitting cross-legged beside the table, looking exactly like he did in the videos, although close up in the grimy light, the lines on his face made him look a thousand years old, leathery and mummified.

“Sit. Take off you mask,’ he said in that thick accent. “Zahran wish to see you face.”

Well, the sun was down and the flies were grounded, so why not? He tugged it off. The air felt good on his skin. He lowered himself to the ground and mimicked Zahran’s pose.

Zahran stared at him a moment, then frowned. “I am told man is looking for little African boy. This man is you?’

Nigel nodded.

“You are police?”

“No.”

Zahran smiled, revealing surprisingly white teeth, and Nigel couldn’t help but feel he’d stepped into some surreal movie where he was facing an Indian chief.

“Why does white Englishman look for African boy?”

“Long story, I’m afraid.”

“Tell me. We have time.”

Nigel took a breath and sighed. “His name’s Bandora Hakizimana and he was living in London with his parents when his uncle, a kid called Jengo, took off with him about ten days ago.”

Nigel didn’t mention that he only assumed Jengo had taken off with him.

“You an investigator?” Boynt said. The two goons had followed him inside but stayed close to the entrance. “Private like? His folks hire you?”

Nigel wondered if Boynt had just used up all his words for the night. He also wondered how much he should tell them. Oh, hell, go for it.

“I’m a journalist and his parents died of the plague.”

“He is orphan.” Zahran said. He didn’t sound surprised. Then, why should he?

“Yes.”

“You are friends of his parents?”

“No. I met them only once. Briefly.”

Very briefly.

“You know this boy, then?”

Nigel shook his head. “Never met him. Never laid eyes on him.”

“Then how can you find him?”

Nigel pulled the sketch from his pocket and handed it to Zahran. The Mungu’s gnarled fingers unfolded the sheet and studied it.

“This is all you have? No photograph?”

“That’s all.”

“Is there a reward?” Rachard said.

Nigel shook his head again. “Not a penny.”

Zahran’s frown deepened. “I do not understand. Again, I ask why white Englishman looks for little African boy? In the midst of all...” he gestured delicately with one hand. “This.”

Dare he say, redemption? No.

“His parents were friends of a friend. He was taken without permission. We’re both concerned about his safety.”

Zahran’s eyes bore into his. “You are an interesting man.”

“Can you help me? Have you seen Bandora?”

“Perhaps he has found me.”

His dark eyes were unreadable, but Nigel felt a surge of triumph. It wasn’t a no. Here was the break he’d been looking for.

“Where is he? Can I see him? The kid, Jengo, had bleached hair. Maybe you remember him?”

“You will find boy when you are ready.”

Shit. He had no time for this mumbo-jumbo bullshit.

“I’m ready now. Like you say, there’s a lot of crap going on and I want to get him back to London.”

“The boy will find you when he is ready. Everything is a test of faith.”

“I’m not really the believing kind.” Nigel tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. Clearly Zahran knew something otherwise why the fuss of bringing him here. But what?

Zahran shrugged. “Perhaps not yet. But you are a good man I feel.” He looked at Nigel for a few long seconds and then sniffed as if a decision had been made. “I have something for you.”

At last. Maybe some useful information.

Zahran reached beneath the table and produced a mortar and pestle. The bowl—Nigel had never been able to keep straight which was the mortar and which the pestle—was half filled with a granular beige powder. Maybe this was the reason Zahran spoke in riddles. Maybe he was off his face on something.

Zahran pointed to the powder. “A miracle awaits.”

“What is it?”

“The Cure.”

“For the plague?”

“For plague and all ills.”

Nigel felt his hopes slump once more. Jengo had mentioned something that would “save” his friends. Rachard had said the same a few moments ago. But a panacea...?

Riiiiight.

Zahran pulled a plastic bottle from below and shook out an empty gelatin capsule. He separated the halves, dipped them into the powder, then fitted them back together.

Nigel got a good look at the Mungu’s hands during the process. They’d looked gnarled before but up close they were positively deformed, with bulbous finger joints that barely moved. The fact that he was able to fill the capsule was damn near miraculous in itself.

Somehow he managed to pinch it between a twisted thumb and a bent forefinger and proffer it to Nigel.

“For you.”

“What’s in it?”

“Life.”

Uh-huh.

Rachard’s comment came back to him: Believers only, mon...

“Why me?”

“Only good man dare flies to look for little boy he never met. After plague, the world need good men.”

He handed Nigel a battered Evian bottle that apparently had undergone multiple refills—but from where? Though obviously missing a few gears, the Mungu seemed sincere in his desire to help. But no way Nigel was taking that pill and washing it down with that water.

He was reminded of the kid who handed you an unlabeled pill in the schoolyard. What is it? Good stuff, just take it. Nigel had given in once and wound up so sick he’d thought he was going to die.

“Is it okay if I save this for later? If I find my faith?” After he’d found Bandora he’d chuck it away. “I wouldn’t want to insult your believers by taking it simply to please you.”

“Wise as well as good,” Zahran said, grinning. “All you need is to believe in God’s grace and He will protect you.”

Believe? he thought as he slipped the capsule into his pocket. You don’t know what you’re asking, mate.

As the thought of all his pointless rows with Abby hit home again, he gritted his teeth and tried to smile graciously. It didn’t come naturally.

“Thank you. But I still need to find Bandora. Can’t you give me any help—any help at all?”

Zahran gave his head a slow, sad shake. “I cannot. You will find him when you are ready.” With unexpected agility, Zahran got to his feet, stepped to the tent flap and lifted it. “Go with God.”

“But—” Nigel felt a hand grip his arm. Boynt was pulling him up. “Hey—”

“When the Mungu says go,” Rachard said, “you go.”

They escorted him back to the parking lot and left him at his car. He sat in the dark without starting the engine.

They were lying. All of them. Especially Zahran. He knew Bandora’s exact whereabouts but wasn’t telling. Why play these games though? Why hadn’t they just shrugged off the picture and said they’d never seen the boy. Why did Nigel feel like he was being toyed with like a cat swats at a mouse before killing it?

Even more of a mystery was why they cared about the boy. None of his research had shown the Hakizimanas to be special in any way, so how could their son be special?

And yet apparently he was—special enough for his uncle to kidnap him and Zahran and his followers to lie about him.

MONDAY

NIGEL

Again Nigel slept later than usual.

He’d crawled into bed last night, sure he’d drop off immediately, but sleep hadn’t come. Questions about that little boy and where he was and who was watching over him and how well they were taking care of him swirled about him until the wee hours.

Sunlight through the windows woke him. He kicked off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, wondering about his next step.

Where the hell did he go from here?

With no answer to that, he grabbed the phone and called home.

“You all right?” he said after her hoarse hello.

Abby said, “I think I caught a cold on top of everything else. How’s it going down there?”

“I’ve hit a wall.”

He told her about meeting Zahran and his suspicions.

“Why would they want a little boy?”

“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it.”

“You don’t think they’re... perverts or like that?”

“Honestly, I don’t. If it’s anything—and I could be totally wrong about them—it’s got to be religious.” He was tired of talking about Bandora. “How about you? You sound weak.”

“Just this cold and my period making me feel a bit crappy.”

“Any plans for the day?”

“Yeah. Vegetate.”

“Good. You do that. Feel better. And stay inside. I’ll call you later.”

“I might be sleeping.”

“Good. Sleep as much as you can. See you soon, I hope.”

He ended the call and looked around the room. The TV was a waste of time, but his laptop sat hibernating on the desk. He jabbed the touchpad. The hard drive whirred and the screen lit with the Glastonbury Abbey video where he’d paused it. He got it running again and leaned back to watch.

The camera—from the poor resolution it had to be somebody’s phone—began panning the crowd and its mix of black and white faces. As the shot cruised those up front by the pickup, it slowed as it caught a black guy with a bleached blond afro.

Nigel shot forward and hit the pause icon. The shot was blurry, but how many black guys with a white afro could be fans of Zahran? No question: He’d found Jengo. The guy had been standing right in front of Zahran that day. How could the Mungu say he didn’t know him? Okay, Jengo could be just another nameless face in the crowd, but Nigel didn’t think so.

He headed for the shower. Time for another visit to Abbey Park. If people hadn’t seen the boy, they might have seen Jengo.

BBC:

Word from the United States that the President has canceled a press conference scheduled for this afternoon. Concern is growing about his health. The US Senate is calling a recess due to the inability to assemble a quorum of members. Many have returned to their homes or are not responding to calls. The House of Representatives called a similar recess two days ago.

NIGEL

Before heading to the abbey, Nigel cruised the town, looking for an open store. Not many to choose from. As he turned onto Market Place he saw a man come out of a little Co-Op. Okay, something was open. He stopped and dashed inside. Like almost every other little shop in every other tourist town these days, it sold ski masks and balaclavas along with its maps and sunglasses and postcards.

Apparently his red-and-blue striped model was now well known among the mungu mob, so he’d need something new to wear. He bought a brand new black one. He pulled it on and checked himself in the mirror on the sunglasses rack. Perfect. He looked like an IRA Provisional, just like everyone else. The day was bright so he bought a pair of sunglasses to hide his eyes as well. He was starting to feel almost optimistic about finding Bandora. What happened after that...

He wanted to buy a cola but the cooler was empty.

At Abbey Park he parked where he had before and began wandering the tent city. He figured maybe a hundred tents in all, but not laid out in any sort of order. Just set down wherever they damn well pleased.

He started out trying to look casual, like he was simply getting some exercise, but that didn’t permit the kind of search he needed to do. So he switched gears and became a man looking for his dog.

This allowed him to stop at closed tents and make inquiries: My girlfriend’s dog’s run off. Yeah, a little Yorkie, answers to the name of “Buttons.” He’s a royal pain in the arse but my girl loves him and I won’t know a moment’s peace until he’s found.

Most of the people he spoke to were young, couples and groups of friends in their twenties and thirties, dressed in jeans and scruffy tops, mainly hippie and rave style, but here and there he found older people, those who not so long ago had sensible white-collar jobs. Seemed that a need for hope was not exclusive to the youth who would normally be camped around here to get high and listen to their favorite bands before heading back to Uni and whatever sober future awaited them. They were all polite. None of them had seen his dog.

Using the two towering remnants of what he assumed was once the entrance to the Abbey or a cathedral of sorts as landmarks, he worked his way east and west. He was half way through a winding, eastward trek, heading toward those tall ruins, when he spotted a bareheaded man crossing what would have been the nave if the church still had a roof. He wore a sweater and slacks, but even at this distance, Nigel knew that face. He couldn’t believe it. Not again.

Singh!

Nigel charged. He wasn’t getting away this time. But he didn’t have a clear course to run. People cluttered the path, making him dodge and weave and stutter and even stop once. When he reached the ruin Singh was nowhere in sight.

Nigel gave into an angry dance, then pulled it together and headed back to the tents. He was shaking inside. He did not—not—believe in ghosts, but either he’d seen fucking Rajiv Singh walking through that ruined church, or he was going off the deep end of guilt, or someone was gas-lighting him and doing a damn fine job of it.

Except for the skin. This was the first time he’d seen the—what?—apparition in full daylight and his skin had looked strange. Tight and almost shiny, like a mask.

Well, Singh was dead and Nigel couldn’t imagine who’d go to the trouble to spook him, so it had to be in his head. He was hallucinating. That wasn’t like him. He wasn’t neurotic and had pretty much stopped thinking about the Singhs.

Was that it? He’d replaced the Singhs with Bandora and his subconscious wasn’t having any of it? He didn’t like it one bit, but that was the only answer that made sense.

He made his way back to the tents and resumed his search, his sunglasses keeping the folks around him from knowing where he was looking. He kept up the Here-Buttons-Buttons-Buttons chant as he peeked into tents that had a flap open and poked his head into any that didn’t. He ran into some hostility when he surprised someone inside, but the lost dog story smoothed things over.

He was about three-quarters of the way through when he poked his head inside a closed tent—little more than a pup tent, really—and saw a blond afro sticking out of a sleeping bag. Yes! Had to be Jengo. His heart raced. At fucking last.

He did a quick survey of the tiny space—no sign of Bandora, but in the corner was a small, worn cuddly bunny rabbit and a bright children’s picture book shoved in a bag. Nigel didn’t need any more to know that Bandora had been with him. Where was he now? He flinched as he leaned inside. It stank in here much worse than Zahran’s tent. Reminded him of—

Oh, hell! The Hakizimana house.

As he entered in a crouch and knelt beside the bedroll, he noticed it was soaked through with sweat and piss and less pleasant fluids. Jengo lay on his left side, facing away. Nigel rolled him onto his back and groaned when he saw the glazed eyes and sunken cheeks.

End-stage plague.

He shook his shoulder. “Jengo!” He kept his voice low. “Jengo!”

This close up, Nigel could see no dark roots in his blond afro. Was his hair really white? He kept shaking him till he focused—sort of.

“Whuh?” His voice sounded like a shoe scuffing slate.

“Where’s Bandora?” No comprehension. “Bandora! Your nephew, dammit! Bandora!”

His face screwed up and he sobbed. “Ban... Mungu...” He mumbled something in a language Nigel didn’t understand.

“English, dammit! English!”

Nigel must have got through to him because he whispered, “Old Way...Old Way.”

The dopers had mentioned that too.

“What’s ‘Old Way’?” He shook him harder. “Jengo! What’s ‘Old Way’?”

Instead of answering, he said, “He comes! God comes!”

Nigel wanted to throttle him. He remembered the Hakizimanas crying out that they didn’t deserve to see god. Why? Because they’d trusted their boy would be safe in the company of his uncle?

“Real or not, you don’t deserve that, you son of a bitch! What’s ‘Old Way’? Tell me, goddamnit! Where’s Bandora?”

Jengo opened his mouth to speak but stiffened instead as the air caught in his throat with a harsh click, then he went limp.

Nigel tried more shaking but no use. Jengo Hakizimana, the rotten fucker who’d kidnapped his nephew for reasons unknown, was gone. Nigel rose and crouched over him, resisting the urge to kick the dead son of a bitch.

Okay. Time to call some attention to this and rattle a cage or two. He stepped outside the tent—Christ, the fresh air smelled good—and began shouting.

“Hey, there’s a dead man here! Died of the plague! Dead man here!”

HENRY

He approached Tower Bridge from the south. When he reached it he found he had the west pedestrian walk all to himself. The east was equally deserted. Well, really, what idiot would be out for a stroll at midday? The rare car on the bridge slowed to gawk as it passed.

I must be a right pretty sight, he thought.

Being starkers except for a pair of goggles would be enough alone to draw looks, but before setting out a mile or so back, he’d used a trowel to coat himself from head to toe with a mixture of super-sticky glue and his own blood. Everywhere but his eyelids. He needed to see and the goggles protected his vision. Then he’d begun walking, pushing a pram loaded with two thirty-pound dumbbells and two pairs of handcuffs.

He’d left Jamie sick at home. Alex was dead. And along the way Henry had realized how quickly London was breaking down. Almost every alley he passed contained a rotting corpse or two—people with the plague who’d thought they could survive one more trip in search of food but didn’t make it back. Instead of being carted off for burial or burning, they’d been left where they fell to rot and breed more flies.

And oh, the flies. The blood-glue mix had done just what he’d hoped: The little flies caught the scent and flocked to him. Millions of them, it seemed, swarming in for a bite. But when they landed on him they stayed—couldn’t bite, couldn’t leave. Their furious, frustrated buzzing was music, a symphony. Soon he was totally coated, head to toe, with the little fuckers. Even his cock. They wanted to suck blood from his cock. Did that make them cocksuckers? It sure as hell did. He let out a laugh. A madman’s cackle.

Yes, what a sight he must be. A man of flies pushing a pram within a cloud of flies.

Not to worry, folks. No baby in here. I’ll never harm another child. I’m done with harming anything but flies.

He stopped midspan and leaned against the wooden rail along the top of the safety wall. It rose only to the bottom of his chest and he crushed a few hundred flies in the leaning. No worry. More where they came from. Plenty more.

The off-center glass egg of City Hall squatted to his left, while the Gherkin dominated the north bank on the right. He’d heard people bitch about both buildings, but he liked the Gherkin. Reminded him of a sleek spaceship ready to rocket to the stars. Directly below, the Thames flowed as it always had, unmindful of the plague.

Henry took a deep breath. Time to do this.

He pulled a pair of cuffs from the pram and snapped one of the bracelets around his left wrist. Then he fastened the second pair around his right. Next he snapped the free bracelet on each around the shaft of a dumbbell. Then, gripping a weight in each hand, he sat atop the railing and crushed another thousand flies on his butt as he settled there with his legs dangling over the water.

A car behind him began to honk. Trying to get him to stop or egging him on? Henry didn’t know, didn’t care. Nobody was going to get out and try to stop a fly-coated man. Maybe they wanted to call out to him, but that meant lowering a window. No-no. Might let death into the car.

He was on his own. But then, he’d been on his own since Maggie and Livvy passed, hadn’t he.

He looked down at the gray water flowing not so far below. He’d feared it unlikely that the fall would be enough to kill him and he didn’t trust himself not to fight the undercurrents and try and swim for the banks when panic gripped him. Thus the sixty pounds of lead locked to his wrists. He’d go under and stay under.

“Little Singh girl!” he shouted. God, he didn’t even know her name. “I’m sorry!” Then, “Maggie! Livvy! I’m on my way!”

He slipped off the ledge and plummeted toward the water.

And I’m taking a million of these fuckers with me.

NIGEL

He felt like he’d gone back in time, transplanted into the fourteenth century as a cart driver. Only the cart was Zahran’s pickup and Rachard wasn’t crying “Bring out your dead,” but the Black Death parallel was inescapable.

Rachard had shown up at Jengo’s tent wearing only a T-shirt and jeans, seeming more surprised to find Nigel there than Jengo dead.

“You back then?”

Nigel had let the obviousness pass. “This is the guy I’ve been looking for.”

Rachard had shrugged. “Some die. Ja’s will, mon.”

He’d brought the pickup and Nigel helped him load Jengo’s body into the open rear bed. Not wanting to lose the opportunity to question Rachard some more, Nigel took the wheel, driving him around the perimeter of the tent city. Rachard would call out, “We’re heading for the moors!” until someone would wave. Then they’d load another body into the back. When they’d gathered half a dozen, Rachard slipped into the passenger seat and pointed west.

“That way.”

“Where are we going?”

He pointed again. “Their final resting place, mon.”

Soon they were out of Glastonbury and onto narrow country roads. Nigel realized these were the moors he could see from the rear of Meare Manor. To the left and right—more to the right—he saw pockets of dark haze about a hundred meters or so off the road.

“What’re those?”

Rachard didn’t seem to need to look to know what Nigel was talking about. ‘Resting places.”

Nigel didn’t get it but he sensed more questions would yield no more details. It grew hot in the cab so Rachard rolled down his window and stripped off his T-shirt.

“You’re not worried about the flies?”

Rachard’s dreads waved like tentacles as he shook his head. “No, mon. I took the Cure.”

The cure...right.

Nigel jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the dead in the truck bed. “Why weren’t they given it?”

“They were. All Zahran’s followers partake.”

Nigel shook his head to clear it. Was he missing something here?

“They’re not looking very cured to me.”

“They lacked faith, mon. Y’gotta have faith in the Mungu for the Cure to work. If you don’t, you wind up like them.”

“Then it’s not really a cure.”

More religious crap. Everywhere, and growing stronger as the plague took hold.

Rachard smiled. “Oh, but mon, it is. Ja is casting a wide net, collecting the righteous with the wicked and sorting them out when they come to Him. The Mungu brings the word of Ja to the people. If you have faith that Ja speaks through the Mungu, the Cure will let you live on to hear the Mungu.”

Nigel gathered that “Ja” was god. But as for the Cure...

“So much for a panacea.”

Rachard frowned. “What?”

“A cure-all.”

“But I am cured. I used to have headaches and backaches, and now I have none.” He spread his bare arms. “All fruits ripe.”

Most probably psychosomatic, Nigel thought. Placebo effect.

“Congrats.”

“And you?” Rachard said. “The Mungu gave you the Cure. You taken it yet?”

“Maybe later. I need to find the boy first. Maybe that will give me some faith in something. You do this job often? You picked up any kids killed by the plague?

“No. No children.” They were approaching an intersection about eight kilometers west town. Rachard said, “Make right here.”

Nigel did as instructed, biting back his frustration. Maybe this was a waste of his time. Rachard wasn’t a talker, that was for sure. They followed a bumpy dirt road until he was directed to turn right again onto a path that consisted of little more than two ruts.

“Where the hell are we going?” Nigel said as they bumped along.

“Almost there.”

A hundred meters later Rachard raised a hand. “Here is good. Time to unload.” He hopped out of the cab. When Nigel didn’t move, he said, “Come on, mon. You gotta help.”

Together they dropped the tailgate and began unloading the bodies one by one. Rachard took the feet, leaving Nigel up with the arms as they moved the bodies to a grassy spot maybe ten meters off to the side of the road. Rachard was meticulous about their placement, directing each be laid three feet apart with face up, head north, feet south.

When all six—four women and two men were laid out—Nigel stepped back and said, “Now what? Sorry, but I didn’t sign on as gravedigger.”

He didn’t want to be outside any longer than he had to.

Rachard’s dreads swung again with the quick shake of his head. “No worry, mon.”

He went back to the truck and returned with a machete.

Oh, shit, Nigel thought, freezing at sight of its honed black blade. “What—?”

Without a word, Rachard stepped up beside one of the bodies and slashed at it, opening the belly from sternum to pubes.

Nigel stumbled back, almost tripping and falling in his haste and revulsion. “For God’s sake!”

“Exactly,” Rachard said.

He then used the tip of the machete to part the incision, letting glistening coils of intestine push through.

He then moved to the second, Jengo’s lifeless body, and did the same. Nigel watched in gaping horror as he repeated the process on all six corpses.

“What the fuck!” was all he could say, over and over.

“They did not make a home for belief while they were alive.” Rachard said as he wiped the blade on the grass. “So now they make homes for new flies.”

Nigel now understood the pockets of dark haze across the moor: clouds of flies over the final resting places of the partially eviscerated remains of belief-challenged followers of Zahran.

A fly buzzed by and landed on the exposed intestines of one of the corpses. Then another.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Rachard smiled at him. “Nuh haste, mon.”

He started for the pickup. “Easy for you to say.”

“Cu ya!”

He turned to see Rachard holding up his forearm and pointing at the fly that had landed on it. Instinctively Nigel raised his gloved hand to slap it away.

“No, do not!” Rachard said. “I partook of the Cure. And I have faith.”

Sweat leaking from every pore, Nigel watched Rachard flinch as the fly took a bite out of his skin. Seconds later the fly took off on his own. Rachard grinned as he displayed the tiny droplet of blood where he had been bitten.

“See? No worry.”

Shaking his head, Nigel jumped back into the truck and started the engine.

The lunatics were running the asylum.

ABBY

Abby ended the call and sagged into a chair. Nigel’s second of the day. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d called twice in one day. She’d managed to sound cheerful enough, she thought. At least she hoped so.

He, on the other hand, had sounded so down, as if he’d lost all hope of finding that little boy. She’d fought the urge to tell him to hurry home so she could hold him and assure him everything was all right.

But he’d know right away she wasn’t, wouldn’t he? Soon as he stepped through that door he’d know she was dying.

Forty-eight hours since the bites and she felt utterly deflated. This morning, before her strength had faded, she’d slid the comfy chair over near the bathroom door and stacked water bottles on the floor next to it. The only food left was canned but not an issue because the uremia from forgoing dialysis had sapped her appetite. But she knew she’d be thirsty.

She might not be able to answer the phone tomorrow, so she’d told Nigel she was going to the hospital for a volunteer shift. He didn’t want her out of the house but she’d said her mind was made up.

Am I doing the right thing? she thought for the thousandth time since Nigel had left.

She had no doubts about allowing herself to be bitten, or about skipping the dialysis—her feet were firm and confident on that path—and none about the dying itself. But dying alone, without Nigel... without his even knowing. Was that right? Would he feel betrayed?

She shook herself. Who was she kidding? Of course he would. She’d lied to him. She just hoped her explanation in the video she’d made yesterday would ease the hurt.

But no way she could have him here. He’d be dragging her to hospital and she’d be too weak to resist. Not that it would matter. The plague was in control now. She could tell by the pallor in her mirror. Her red cells were dissolving, melting away like snowflakes in a sunbeam.

She felt no pain, just a sick feeling in her stomach and exhaustion beyond imagining. She could still force herself to her feet and shuffle to the bathroom. But soon she wouldn’t be able to do that. And then it would get messy. She hated the thought of anyone, especially Nigel, finding her like that.

No, she’d go to her Lord and Savior alone. By this time tomorrow she’d be basking in His glow as she waited for Nigel.

NIGEL

He was hungry so he wandered down to the dining room but found it deserted—no staff and no diners. He went to the front desk and rang the bell until the woman appeared from somewhere in the back.

“Aren’t you serving dinner tonight?”

The woman behind the desk shook her head. “You’re the only guest, sir. None of the staff showed up today.”

“None? But my bed was made.”

She gave him a sad smile. “I took care of that.” Tears sprang into her eyes. “It’s all falling apart, isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question.

What could he say? He didn’t have a spirit-lifting platitude to offer. And what would be the point of one anyway?

“I’m afraid it is. Look, do you mind if I root around in the kitchen and see if there’s anything to eat? I’m famished.”

“Oh, please help yourself.”

“Do you want me to bring you anything?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not hungry.”

He noticed her pallor. “You look tired. Have you been...?”

“Bitten?” Her smile looked forced. “Not that I know of. But one doesn’t always know, does one.”

“I’m sure it’s just stress. We’re all feeling it.”

At a loss for words, he hurried away.

The kitchen had large ovens. Looked like they did some of their own baking. He found some sliced ham, some bread that wasn’t stale but on the way, and a jar of mustard. He threw together two sandwiches, grabbed a couple of bottles of beer from behind the bar, and sat at a table near the wall.

Strange to be the only one in the whole dining room. He felt like the last man on the Titanic. All the lifeboats were gone and he had no way of getting off, so what the hell, grab a sandwich and a beer. The metaphor for everything he was doing wasn’t lost on him. Finding one child while the world died was equally ridiculous when he thought about it.

Not that he’d given up on living. Zahran’s cure might be mumbo-jumbo bullshit, but scientists around the world would be working on a real one. He just had to stay safe until they found it.

He finished everything and bused his plates and bottles back to the kitchen. Then, enjoying his beer buzz, stepped out the back door for some fresh air. The sun was down so he didn’t have to worry about covering up. His car and another—the receptionist’s, he guessed—had the lot to themselves. He noticed his inside light was on.

How’d that happen? he wondered as he strolled toward it.

He was pretty sure no one had broken in. First off, nobody about, and he didn’t have anything valuable inside. Didn’t even bother to lock it most of the time.

He found the driver door ajar. He’d closed it, hadn’t he? He couldn’t remember. He’d been in quite a state when he’d got back... images of Rachard slitting those bellies open had been playing tag with close ups of that fly biting his arm.

Maybe he hadn’t closed the door. Maybe he’d given it a push and it hadn’t caught. Whatever the reason, good thing he’d stepped out because he might have found himself with a dead battery tomorrow, and fat chance of finding someone with cables to give him a jump.

As he pulled it open to give it a proper slam, something buzzed out of the interior and landed on his neck. He felt a sting and slapped at it.

“Oh, no!”

He’d crushed it against his skin. He grabbed it and kicked the car door shut, then ran for the hotel. Inside the back door he inspected it under the light. Half crushed with one leg still kicking, but no doubt about it: one of the African flies. No question.

“Shit!”

His stomach turned to water and then to ice. He wanted to rewind time. To skip dinner. To have stayed in his room. He threw the fly to the floor and ground it under his shoe.

“Shit-shit-shit!”

No. This couldn’t be happening. He’d been so careful, and then to be bitten by a fucker trapped in his car? No. Couldn’t be.

He ran up to his room and leaped to the bathroom mirror where he found a tiny little puncture.

No! Fuck no!

Frantic, he grabbed the soap and washcloth and scrubbed the area until his skin felt raw. He wasn’t giving up yet. What else? He had no alcohol. How about—?

The pill—the Cure. Zahran’s pill. Where had he put it? He slammed the wardrobe’s sliding door aside and found his trousers on the shelf over the hangers and pawed through his pockets. Please God, don’t let it have fallen out somewhere. Please.

“Gotta be here, gotta be—”

There. A gelatin cap filled with beige powder. He rushed to the sink, filled a glass from the tap, and washed it down without the slightest confidence that it would help.

Y’gotta have faith in the Mungu for the Cure to work. If you don’t, you wind up like them...

Well, faith in the Mungo...he had no faith in that crazy African. Yet Nigel had seen him bitten by flies—thousands of them—and he was still walking around. And Rachard... one of those African flies had taken a bite out of him today. Nigel wished he’d asked him how many times he’d been bitten.

Maybe the Cure worked only for a minority who took it—some idiosyncratic internal effect countered the autoimmune reaction to the saliva. Maybe Nigel would be one of the lucky ones.

Yeah. Right.

He felt like crying. His skin crawled in panic.

“Shit-shit-shit!”

TUESDAY

NIGEL

He didn’t know how he managed to fall asleep, but somehow he did, and he awoke feeling pretty good.

How was that possible? Too soon for symptoms? But all the research he’d done indicated that people became symptomatic within hours of an infected bite.

Zahran’s pill?

No. He couldn’t buy that. And yet...

Not only did he feel good, he was hungry. That had to be a good sign. A small wash of relief flooded through him and he wanted to laugh with elation. Maybe he was going to be all right after all.

He’d slept in his clothes so he simply straightened his shirt and tucked himself in. But before heading downstairs he called Abby. He wouldn’t tell her about the fly bite. Even though he was fine, she’d only worry.

No answer...probably over at the hospital volunteering. They made you turn off your cell phone there. He’d try again later.

He headed downstairs and found the dining room still deserted. But so was the front desk. Was he the only one in the place?

After walking around calling out “Hello?” for about five minutes, he gave up and went to the kitchen. No eggs or orange juice about so he opted for another ham sandwich and coffee. Too creepy eating in the dining room with no one else in the building, so he carried the food up to his room. The TV was pretty much white static on all channels, and rather than sit in silence, once he’d eaten he called Mal to fill him in on his thus far not-so-fruitful search.

But when Mal answered, he knew something was wrong. His breathing sounded labored and it took him a long beat to manage a greeting.

“Nigel. Good to hear you.”

“Are you okay?”

“No. I’ve got it. So does Amelia. A couple of flies got in the house and, well...”

“Jesus, Mal. When?”

He almost told him about his own bite, but held back. He wasn’t sure if it was out of care for his friend, or some kind of denial, but suddenly it seemed important that one of them be healthy.

“If you’re asking how much time I’ve got left, fuck knows. I’m not good. The whole paper seems to have come down with it. Toulson too.”

Well, the news isn’t all bad, he thought. No, don’t be like that.

“Does he blame me for that too?”

“He’d probably love to, but you wouldn’t believe the flies here. The city’s full of them. We’ve published our last edition, I’m afraid.”

Typical Mal—headed for his deathbed but worrying about the paper.

“The Light’s gone out then?”

“Afraid so. Did you find Bandora?” A hint of urgency had crept in Mal’s weakened voice.

“I haven’t got him yet, but I think I know where he is.” The lie came easily.

“Really? You don’t know how good that is to hear. I keep thinking about it. I’d like to know... before... if you know what I mean.”

Before he died. Shit. This was surreal. Mal dying. Fuck, maybe he was too.

“I’ll find him, Mal. Trust me.”

“Call me later?”

“Sure. You rest.”

Rest. Right. As if someone with the plague had a choice. As if resting was going to help any of them.

He drained his coffee, trying not to think about Mal’s imminent death. Or his own bite. Instead he focused on Zahran and his riddles. The bastard knew something and it was time to find out what. He was going back and wasn’t taking any bullshit this time.

He was already wearing jeans and a turtleneck, so he slipped on his ski mask and headed for the car park. He might have lucked out with that fly bite last night, but he wasn’t taking chances.

Down in the otherwise empty lot, he made sure no other flies were waiting in his car, then got rolling. As he cruised through Glastonbury, even more deserted than yesterday, he kept his eye out for stray pedestrians, especially one who might be Indian. No Singh sighting this trip. No anybody.

He was halfway to the camp when the first symptoms hit him: muscle aches and nausea.

Aw, no. His face flushed with sudden panic and he squeezed the steering wheel. Maybe it was just the food. Maybe the ham had gone off. Maybe. But what were the odds? He gritted his teeth. Facts were his business. The sweat under his mask was telling him this was plague. That was the fact.

Through the windscreen the sun shone bright and clear on the countryside and he wanted to weep.

Three days after the bite. He had until Thursday.

Okay. Make the time mean something. The thought was a balm through the rush of fear that filled him. Get back to Abby, but finish the job first. For the Singhs, for Mal, and for his own sorry soul. He was so close... almost there.

He yanked the ski mask off and threw it angrily to one side. What could the flies do to him now?

At the Abbey he found the residents packing up, folding their tents and leaving their rubbish littering the ground.

“We’re moving on,” said a voice behind him. Boynt.

“Where to?”

“London. Westminster.”

“Is Zahran taking the kid with him? Bandora?”

Another wave of nausea hit him as a reminder he no longer had time to fuck about.

“Forget about that boy.”

“Where’s the other half of your cheerful double act?”

“There.” Boynt nodded toward a tent that no one was taking down, and then walked off toward an RV that already had its engine running.

Nigel leaned toward the closed flap.

“Rachard? You in there?”

“Who that be?” came a weak voice from within.

Nigel’s stomach dropped. He lifted the flap and looked inside. Rachard lay on his back, looking... well, sick. He wouldn’t be smoothing Nigel’s path with Zahran, that was for sure.

“Oh, Christ. You’ve got it.” Too, he almost added. His own infection still felt surreal.

“No, mon!” he said, frantically waving his hands. “I just got the miseries is all. Just the temporary miseries.”

“I want to know where the boy is. You gonna tell me, or do I have to ask your crazy boss? I just want to get the boy and go home.”

Rachard’s eyes clouded. “Ask the Mungu.”

“Just tell me.”

Rachard turned onto his side, facing away. “You go now.”

“Tell me, goddamnit! Did he catch the plague, is that it? Is he dead? Or is Zahran hiding him somewhere? Why?”

“Go. I need rest so I can follow the Mungu tomorrow.”

Nigel’s patience snapped. “You’re not following him anywhere, you lying son of a bitch. You’re a dead man and you know it.”

Resisting the urge to kick down the tent, he turned and stepped out into the sunlight. Behind him, as the flap dropped back, he heard a wrenching sob and felt like a cunt.

But he needed to find that little boy and only one person could help. He walked toward the center of the camp and hoped that Zahran was still there.

He was.

His henchmen were loading his tent and meager possessions into the back of a white van—a mundane method of travel for a self-proclaimed spokesman for God—and the man himself was staring up at the sky, enjoying the sun on his face. The same sun was on Nigel’s but it didn’t stop him from wanting to strangle the man for his freedom in the world. For his days beyond the next three. His legs felt weak beneath him.

“Zahran.”

The wizened head turned to him and, on seeing his exposed face, smiled. “You have found faith, I see.”

Nigel stepped up close. “I think my mask is no longer required.”

“Ah.” Understanding dawned. “A bite.” He shrugged. “You have the cure.”

“I’m not holding out much hope.”

“But you took?” He smiled again. Of course Nigel had taken it. Who wouldn’t?

“All I want is to know what happened to the boy. If he’s still alive. I’m not exactly a threat to you anymore.”

Knowing the plague was wreaking its hell on his bloodstream stripped away the bullshit.

“Ah, Bandora. A special boy. Sacred child.”

“So you do know him?” The tiredness creeping over him washed away. He was getting somewhere. “Why sacred? He’s from an ordinary family.”

“Jengo knew. He brought him to me.”

“What did he know?” Nigel wanted to shake the old man until he rattled.

“The old ways.” He stared at Nigel. “Look at your picture again.”

Infuriated, Nigel unfolded the sheet and stared.

“What?”

“You see, but you don’t see.” A melodic tone. It jarred against the thrum of the van’s diesel engine starting up. “This is not photograph. Just drawing. No light.” A pause. “No color.”

Nigel looked again. No color. He thought of Jengo’s blonde hair. He remembered how Bandora’s parents had kept him hidden. Pieces of the jigsaw moved slowly together.

“He’s an albino?”

“A sacred child. A gift from God.”

Someone inside the van whistled. They were ready to get moving.

“Please. Where is he? Is he alive? I need to know.”

“He lives,” Zahran said. “He lives in you.’ He waved an arm at the dismantling tent city. “He lives in all of them.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Sounded like one of Abby’s religious rants.

“I told you that you and the boy would find each other when ready. The fly bite you. You take the cure. You and the boy are united.”

The cure. Bandora was the cure. The crushed powder in the pestle and mortar. A little boy’s bones.

As Nigel reeled, Zahran stepped away and climbed into the van.

“God bless you.”

Tires moved on the mud. Nigel barely heard them past the rushing in his head. His stomach twisted and he threw up, nearly falling to his knees. As he gasped for breath and let his stretched muscles recover, the awful truth settled.

He’d heard stories before while on his travels, mentions in the London papers a few years ago. Albino murders in Tanzania, hacked to death and their bones crushed up and used by witch doctors for fake cures.

Shit. Shit. He wanted to cry all over again. He’d taken the cure. He’d come to save the boy and he was now a part of his destruction, and dying of the plague to boot.

He wiped snot from his face and dragged himself back to the car. Mal was waiting for a call. What the hell was he going to tell him?

The car meandered its way back to the hotel. Good thing he had both lanes to himself. His hands trembled and his head thumped loudly and he was grateful when he abandoned the machine in the car park and staggered through the empty reception area. Vomiting had made him weaker and he worked up a sweat climbing the stairs to the second floor. He collapsed on the unmade bed for a moment to catch his strength.

Less than three days left if he was lucky. The last chance at some kind of redemption had vanished when he’d swallowed that capsule. He didn’t know whether to scream or to cry.

He needed to talk to Abby. He wouldn’t tell her about the bite until he got home—he’d leave right away before the symptoms got worse—but he needed to hear her voice.

No answer.

Worry nibbled at him. Where was she? At the hospital? Seemed like an awful long time. Had she gone to church maybe? He wanted her inside. Where she’d be safe. His eyelids felt heavy, but he didn’t put the phone down. He had another call to make and then he’d try Abby again.

He dialed Mal. It rang for over a minute before he answered. His breathing was a rattle. How long ago had he been bitten?

“Mal?”

“Did you find him? Is he okay?” Every word sounded like an effort.

“Yes. Yes, I found him.”

“And is he...?”

The ache in the unfinished question down the line stabbed at Nigel. How could he tell Mal what had happened to his wife’s relative? What did he have left? A day? Less? He thought of the only gift he had left for anyone and the irony of it: dishonesty.

“He’s fine. He’s sleeping. Jengo’s dead, but this Zahran had kind of adopted him.”

“He’s not been bitten?”

“No. And I’ve got him totally wrapped up. I’ll take him home with me to Abby later.”

He blinked back tears that stung the back of his eyes. No happy ending was ever real.

“Good. Good. Will you...I know it’s a lot to ask, but...” The line was starting to crackle slightly.

“We’ll look after him Mal. I promise you.”

“Thank you, Nigel. You don’t know how much this means. We can... we can relax now. Thanks.”

“See you soon, Mal.”

The line went dead. After a moment he ran to the bathroom and threw up again.

BBC:

<no transmission>

NIGEL

The vomiting seemed to magnify all his symptoms. He collapsed on the bed and lay there staring at the ceiling. Finally he roused himself and tried to call Abby again but couldn’t raise her. He looked at his phone display and saw NO SERVICE on the screen.

Brilliant. Had the local towers gone dead?

He had to get home. He sat up and felt the room tilt. He held on and it righted itself. But when he tried to stand it went into a spin and his knees gave out. He gave it a moment then crawled back onto the bed. He needed rest. He’d just close his eyes for a few minutes, then he’d try again...

ABBY

At some point Abby had hauled herself downstairs to lay on the sofa. She no longer cared about water or thirst; her body was way beyond that being an issue. Why she hadn’t gone to bed, she didn’t know. It would have been more comfortable—more natural. To die in bed, that was what everyone wanted, wasn’t it? To slip peacefully away. Maybe not this young. And maybe not like this. Whatever, she had ended up on the sofa, sprawled out and sweating, the cushions beneath her soaking from her escaping water and chilling her skin through her wet clothes.

Her phone was tossed, useless, on the carpet. The battery had died at some point, and the last time she’d tried it—a moment of wanting to hear Nigel’s voice for one last time—the networks had been down anyway.

Night had fallen as she lingered in her haze, but she didn’t mind. The dark would be all the better for seeing the light of God when He came. Surely that must be soon. Time had drifted. She was pretty sure this was day three, even though the past 24 hours had seemed endless. She was at death’s door, she knew that, her body was screaming it at her—or perhaps more like whimpering it at her, she had so little energy left—so where was He?

Had she done the right thing? She’d been so sure and now doubt was creeping in. If she hadn’t, if God frowned on her for allowing herself to be bitten, He might not come.

No. Faith. Have faith. That was what this was all about.

All she could do was wait. Her limbs were too heavy to move, as if her body was rehearsing for the stillness of the grave. Her eyelids ached to sink closed forever, but she forced herself to blink. To stay awake. She wanted to see Him when he came for her. She had nothing else left.

She drifted some more, and then suddenly... light. A vague, darting beam. Her heart raced, the last of her physical strength joining her spiritual hope. Was this it? Was He finally coming for her?

Her vision was blurry, the world out of focus from sickness, and the light grew closer until it was so bright she had to squint. She gasped and smiled and croaked a laugh. God. At last she would see His face. Nothing else mattered.

“Mrs. Thompson?”

The light wavered. She hadn’t expected God to speak. And the accent. What was that? Indian? Pakistani?

He repeated her name, and she tried to murmur a response. She tried to focus. Why was God using her married name? It didn’t make sense. It didn’t...

Suddenly the overhead lights came on and she groaned as the world became clear. Not God at all. An Indian man holding a torch leaned over her. She wanted to cry.

The man threw the torch to the carpet and pulled a bottle of water from his jacket pocket. He tipped some carefully between her lips. She was too weak to do anything but swallow.

“I’m here to help you,” he said. “You are not going to die.”

“Who are you?” she finally whispered.

“A doctor. My name is Singh.” He paused and gently pushed her sweaty hair out of her eyes. “I have been following your husband.”

“Doctor Singh?” she said. The haze was gripping her again. But that was... wasn’t he dead? How could he be...? And then the blackness came, no light of God in it, no light at all, and she passed out into oblivion.

WEDNESDAY

ABBY

The light that woke her was brilliant sunshine. She lay in bed and a warm breeze moved through the room from the open window. Somewhere a fly buzzed. A perfect summer’s day. For a moment, the fever, the sickness, the plague itself seemed like the echo of a dream. Then the ache in her parched throat hit her and her head throbbed.

The man. She hauled herself up to a half-sitting position. Her arms trembled with the effort, but she couldn’t deny that although she still felt monumentally shit, the crisis had passed. She should be dead. She knew that. She’d been dying. She’d had the plague. So what the hell had happened? This was day four. There should be no day four. She should have been with God now.

Footsteps came up the stair. The clink of crockery. Her heart leapt as a shadow fell across her door. Nigel? Was he home?

“I thought you might be hungry,” said an unfamiliar voice. “You should try to eat.”

A stranger. That man. Singh. The fevered dream of last night came back to her. A doctor Singh, but not the ill-fated one Nigel’s faulty research had named as root of the plague. Couldn’t be. He looked similar, but something about the man’s skin made him look as if he had survived a fire. It looked stretched and shiny, almost a varnished look, reminding her of photos of Hollywood stars’ facelifts gone wrong.

He placed the tray on her lap—a bowl of baked beans and rice, topped with tinned tuna alongside a pot of tea—and then retreated to a respectable distance.

“Eat. Please. An unusual breakfast, I know, but all I could find in your cupboards were tins and—”

“Who are you and why are you here?”

Her voice was stronger. Another betrayal of her soul by her body. Her stomach rumbled, but she refused to touch the food until he told her what he was doing in her house. “How did you get in? What do you want?”

“I am Ganek Singh. My brother was Rajiv Singh and—”

She started, pushing herself back against the headboard and almost spilling the tray. “Oh, God!”

“I mean you no harm.”

Fear had an icy grip on her throat. “Where’s my husband? Where’s Nigel?”

“He is in Glastonbury. I followed him there.”

“Why? Is he all right? Have you... hurt him?”

“I did him no harm.”

That was a relief. But...

“Then why—?”

“I returned to find you. I saw you sick through the window and getting in was easy. There are no police to chase burglars.”

“Things are that bad?”

“Everyone is sick.” He looked at her and then shrugged. “Nearly everyone. Eat your food.”

His tight, shiny face was impassive and if she wasn’t so damned tired she’d want to punch him. She was supposed to be dead. How had he cured her? He had no right. Even if she’d somehow survived the plague she should be feeling the effects of going without her dialysis so long.

“What have you done to me?”

“We can talk more on the road.” He moved back to the doorway. “But you will need some energy.”

“Road to where?” she called after him, but he was already out of the room.

A few moments later she heard the pipes gurgle as water ran in the kitchen. He was washing up. Normality in the midst of chaos. She stared at the food through eyes stinging with tears and her body relinquished its bitterness at living and raged with hunger. She dug into the rice and beans. What else was there to do?

Two hours later, when she’d managed to shower and dress, she climbed into the Range Rover parked outside and slumped in the passenger seat.

The food had given her energy and she had to admit she was feeling much better. Physically, at least. Emotionally and mentally she was exhausted. She’d been so ready. That had been taken from her. The only reason she’d got out of the house was that Singh—who swore he hadn’t treated her in any way other than to give her some water and carry her upstairs to bed—said he would take her to Nigel and give her some explanation for what was going on with her.

They drove through the silent city with the windows open. Bodies lay in the street and flies—of all varieties—buzzed around them. Most houses had their curtains closed. London had become a graveyard, one that was taunting Abby by excluding her.

She closed her eyes and leant back against the headrest, trying desperately not to enjoy the warmth of the sun on her face. She’d asked before but had to ask again.

“You haven’t hurt Nigel, have you?”

“My brother and his family died because of him. And perhaps, yes, I had vengeance in my heart when I followed him. I wanted to cause him pain, as he caused such pain for my family.” He sighed, a long breath on the passing breeze. “But I am not a man given to such things by nature, and when I watched his search for the boy my heart softened. He is not a bad man.”

“No,” she said. “Pig-headed, stubborn, and occasionally stupid, but never bad.” She opened her eyes, a rush of love for her husband—anticipation at seeing him - surprising her. “It wasn’t his fault, you know. He will always believe it was, but it wasn’t.”

Along the hard shoulder of the motorway, cars were dotted at crazy angles where drivers had pulled over—giving up on their journeys and their fight against the plague. The air buzzed around them. Flies everywhere. How fast they had claimed England.

“He’s been bitten, hasn’t he?”

She didn’t look at Singh. What other reason could he have for taking her to Nigel rather than Nigel coming back with him to her? Speaking the words aloud, a deadened statement, made them more surreal. Nigel wasn’t supposed to get the plague—she was.

“I think so, yes.”

The wheels turned endlessly under them and the engine hummed.

“I was bitten three times,” she said, glancing down at her bare arm. “So why the fuck aren’t I dead?” She spat out the words, accusing, venomous. “I should be with God now. I should be waiting for my husband.”

“I too was bitten. I too survived.”

“How? You’re the doctor. Explain it. Just luck?” Bad luck. “Are we two in a million?”

“You see my skin?” He turned to face her and the sun danced off the strange smooth tightness. “Before the plague I had scleroderma. Then I was bitten. One of the first in England. Like you, I got sick. Thought I was dying. Being a surgeon, I knew there was nothing the hospital could do for me, so I stayed at home to die. But after the third day I recovered. Scleroderma, like systematic lupus, is an autoimmune disease. The hemolytic anemia of the plague is also an autoimmune disease. My theory is that one somehow counter-acts the other. The changes my condition caused prior to the plague are still there, but it has not progressed. The plague arrested it.”

“But the lupus aside, I’m way overdue on my dialysis.”

Abby was determined to keep a grip on death for as long as possible. Maybe she was just having a brief respite. Maybe her wellness was a temporary illusion.

“I think perhaps the second autoimmune reaction partially reversed the first. I have saliva again, and tears—I discovered that when Rajiv died. Without testing your blood, I would hazard a guess that your kidneys are functioning again. Not one hundred percent—I doubt they’ll ever reach that level—but well enough to survive without dialysis.”

“You’re saying they’re getting better?”

“I’m only saying improved.”

Abby stared at him. Twenty-four hours ago she’d been expecting death. And now he was telling her that not only had she survived the plague but her lupus had been arrested.

“This is ridiculous. You’re crazy.”

“No. No, this is scientific. We aren’t unique. The man your husband tracked to Glastonbury—this Zahran who thinks he’s been chosen by his god—I saw him. His hands. It’s clear he had rheumatoid arthritis. Another autoimmune disease.”

“Just spit out what you’re trying to tell me. In plain English.”

“The irony of the plague is that people who have been chronically ill—like you and I and Zahran—are going to get well, and the healthy are going to die. So many of them. All of them.” He stared intently at her. “For those of us left behind it will be like walking out of Africa again.”

Left behind. Abby’s heart thumped against her chest and she frowned as she stared out at the passing fields, desperate to find some purpose in it.

“Why wouldn’t He choose the healthy?” she muttered. “Why such a clean division? It doesn’t make sense.”

Here and there fires burned in fields, an echo of the fires destroying cattle at the height of the foot-and-mouth outbreak, but this time human bodies blazed, those who were still alive trying to protect themselves by creating pyres of the dead.

“He?”

“God. They all see God when they die. He comes to take them. He’s saving them.”

“Vishnu comes to them?”

“No...God. The one true god.”

Singh smiled slightly. “Oh, you mean Shiva? Or do you mean Brahma?”

“The Christian God.”

“Humans have invented many gods. Why is yours the one now getting all the glory?”

“Because mine invented us.” She wasn’t going to have this argument. Not again. “And He’s now judging us. That’s why the chosen get the visions.”

“You mean the hallucinations just before death. The light? That is not god. That is the result of hypoxia in the visual cortex. The ‘vision’ is given shape by the fading consciousness. If you think you’ll see god, then that’s what you’ll see. It has become the last hope of the dying. A shared hallucination.”

“You can think what you want.” Abby turned her head away from him and sipped from her water bottle. “I know what I believe.”

She waited for him to fight her, try and beat her down with his supposed logic like Nigel would. But he wasn’t Nigel. Instead he stayed quiet for a few minutes before speaking. His words were soft.

“I shall respect your beliefs. But you should not be sad to be alive. If you believe in an all-powerful god, then that disrespects his will. Perhaps you are looking at it wrong. Perhaps he is not judging, but wishes to start again. Perhaps he is only trusting the strong to that task. Those who understand suffering already.”

It was Abby’s turn not to speak. Perhaps he had a point.

NIGEL

Mal would be dead now. Soon he’d be following him. Him and pretty much everyone else on this sorry planet. Who would be left? Zahran preaching his craziness at Westminster to a churchful of corpses. What would he do when the final follower died? Kill himself, Nigel hoped. End the whole sorry mess.

His life wasn’t exactly flashing before him, but his mind was drifting back through the years, revisiting bits and pieces that until now he’d lost with the hurlyburly of actually living.

His first day on the paper. His wedding day. Sneaking out of the reception for twenty minutes with Abby and giggling while they fucked in the toilet, her long wedding dress pushed up around her waist. Appendicitis when he was ten, coming on fast after football and his mum telling him it was just tummy ache. The fear on her face after the operation.

All the yesterdays merged in his head as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He knew he should eat something, or drink something but the idea of trying to lift himself off the bed was too much to contemplate and no one had come to see if he was okay or tell him that he was overdue on his check out. Had they left? He couldn’t remember hearing a car, but that was no guarantee. Perhaps the mother and her boy were somewhere else in the hotel, gazing at the ceiling, and feeling too weak to move.

With supreme effort he turned his head and gazed out the window. The sky was a perfect vivid blue, and the small wisps of clouds were like surf on the sea. Abby. Dorset. A weekend in July. More memories. He let them blur and closed his eyes. Sleep for a bit. Sleep would be good.

“Nigel? Nigel? Oh god.”

“Let me see him.”

A hand on his head. A pulse check. Eyelids being dragged open.

“How bad is it? Oh god. Can’t you do something?”

Crying. Who was crying?

“Oh god.”

“He is very sick. I’m sorry. A day more I think... that’s all.”

Nigel’s consciousness finally broke surface.

“Man,” he croaked. “I could have told you that.”

And then Abby was on him, her hair across his face and her wet tears warm on the cold sweat that soaked his shirt. Abby. Abby was here. With all his energy, he lifted one arm and wrapped it round her. She was wearing a thin cotton shirt, no balaclava, no jacket, no gloves. She was with the man who’d been following him. He too was unprotected. For a brief moment his journalistic mind attempted to question it all, and then he realized that none of it mattered.

“The sea, Abs,” he whispered into her sweet, soft hair. “I want to see the sea.”

Nigel could feel the sunlight, taste the brine on the breeze, hear the sea somewhere out there before him, but could not see it. He’d caught a beautiful glimpse when he forced his lids open for a second as they’d placed his stretcher on the gentle incline of a dune, but couldn’t find the will for another try.

Although he’d been slipping in and out of consciousness all day, he knew that Rajiv Singh’s brother had gone to borrow an ambulance. Why not? No one else was using it. And then he and Abby—glorious healthy Abby—had loaded him in the back and headed west until they reached the sea. Then they carried him on a stretcher to the beach.

I’m dying, he thought. These are my last hours. Where’s the panic?

Dying. Death. Nothing. That was what waited for him. All the life he’d led had come to this, and now it felt as if it had all been wisps of a dream left to flutter in this one moment. Final hours. No more tomorrows.

Maybe he was too weak to panic. He felt oddly at peace with the world, a peace he’d never known while up and about and healthy and death was something that happened to someone else. He was going away and what was left of the world would carry on without him. Just as well. He was so very, very tired.

Abby sat on his right and held his hand. Her palm was soft and warm and felt a million miles away. Singh sat on his left and did not hold his hand, thank you. Small mercies.

“I saw bags of IV fluid in the ambulance,” Abby said, softly. “Can’t we...?”

Their conversation washed over him like a breeze. He didn’t like the pain in her voice.

It’s okay, Abs. I’m a shit. I’ve been a shit for a long time. This ending could be shittier for someone like me.

Rajiv Singh had burned. His wife and little girl had burned. They’d died in terror and screaming. Yes, Nigel deserved worse than being carried out to death gently like driftwood on the sea.

Bandora. He didn’t want to think about Bandora.

“Hook him up? Not a good idea.”

Singh this time. Calm. Steady. A doctor. Even in all the madness of the plague he’d managed to wangle a doctor at his deathbed.

“But he’s got to be dehydrated.”

“A little. Not such a bad thing in his case. It concentrates the few red blood cells he has left. If we put a liter or two into him, the dilution will only worsen his hypoxia. And hypoxia is what’s going to... carry him off. Not dehydration.”

Abby’s voice was barely audible. “Carry him off...”

In the ensuing silence Nigel again wondered at his calm acceptance of being “carried off.”

The sun set, the air cooled, and he heard talk of taking him back to the ambulance for shelter. He managed to raise the energy to speak.

“No. Please. Stay here.”

They didn’t argue. He heard them building a fire from driftwood, then felt its heat as it caught. Light from the flames flickered through his closed lids. He felt as if he were in the dark, listening to a stereo audiobook. A clink of a bottle. Wine? He didn’t blame her.

“It’s got to make you laugh a bit, Nigel,” Abby said, still on his right, clutching his hand. “You’re going to get to see God and I’m not. Not yet.”

Don’t bet the savings account on that, Abs. It’s a void. A nothing.

Something twinged in the last beatings of his physical body. He would never hold her again. Never see her again.

THURSDAY

NIGEL

“Is he asleep?”

“I think so.”

He let them think so. Easier than finding the energy to squeeze her hand again. Another long pause. The crackle of the fire. The whisper of the sea and shifting sand. The last people on earth. Soon to be one less.

“A while ago you spoke to him about seeing god. You really believe these poor sick people see the creator of the universe coming for them in their final seconds?”

Uh-oh. Watch out, Singh.

“How can you deny it? It’s universally reported. And don’t give me that random-firing of neurons in the visual cortex bullshit!”

“Could you possibly adopt a neutral stance—just for a minute?”

Fat chance.

“I’m capable.”

Uh-huh.

“All right, then. The dying person has sinned.”

“How do you know that?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t we all sinners in the eyes of god?”

“Well, yes...”

I don’t need god for that, Nigel thought. I’m a sinner in my own eyes. Your brother and his family, Singh... if only I’d kept better guard on that data.

He pulled further into himself as they talked.

“I mean it’s right there in your own New Testament. When Jesus said, ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,’ he didn’t expect to see any rocks flying. Montaigne said something to the effect that no man is so good that if all his actions were scrutinized he wouldn’t deserve hanging ten times over.”

“I prefer Jesus.”

“I prefer Montaigne.”

Abby gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “So would Nigel, I’m sure.”

Right on, gorgeous girl.

“So however you look at it, the dying plague victims are in need of redemption and have been told to expect the divine. The hypoxia creates a self-fulfilling prophecy: They see the source of their redemption.”

“Yes. God. He is the only source of redemption, so that’s Who they see—that’s Who is there. Otherwise nothing makes sense.”

What will I see? Nigel thought. Empty space, right? That’s the redemption I’m expecting.

Singh sighed. “I keep a quote from Mark Twain over my desk: ‘It’s no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.’ Twain was talking about writing, but it applies to everything. Reality is under no obligation to make sense to us. It is what it is. It’s up to us to make sense of it... if we wish. Too often we don’t wish. Rather than probe reality, we simply concoct explanations. I call it explanation without investigation.”

“Science has millions of unanswered questions.”

Knew that one was coming.

“Of course. That doesn’t stop us from asking them, however. But see, unanswered questions make people uncomfortable. The human mind craves order and symmetry. Order and symmetry demand that when something happens—good or bad—it shouldn’t simply happen, it should happen for a reason... it should have a purpose. We find comfort in that. So we search for the reason, and if we can’t find one, do we say, ‘Sorry, I just don’t know?’ That’s the honest answer. But no, we fill in the blank with what best fits our worldview. And that’s where the trouble begins.”

“Trouble as in God, you mean?”

Nigel could hear the acid in her tone.

“Well, what greater source of order and symmetry can you imagine than a Supreme Being? But we also fill the blanks with Satan, demons, aliens... take your pick.”

Abby’s brief laugh carried a derisive edge. “Aliens... really.”

“Let’s take demons then. A medieval mother says, ‘My daughter wouldn’t act that way. This isn’t like her at all. She must be possessed! Call the priest!’ As soon as the words ‘She must be possessed!’ pass the mother’s lips, she finds a sort of comfort amid her terror. That makes sense to her. And not only does that offer a cause, it offers a solution: ‘Call the priest!’”

“The Church has had many successful exorcisms.”

“Has it? I’ll have to take your word for it. But the same mindset carries over to this plague. Humanity is being wiped out, or very nearly so. Everyone asks, Why? No one wants to hear that it’s happened to countless species through time. People think of dinosaurs and dodos, but three species go extinct every hour of every day. So why not Homo sapiens? As to why? Because shit happens. But no one wants to hear that, and I mean no one—neither the rational nor the irrational folks. Someone or something caused this. If it isn’t God’s will then it’s an alien virus or human hubris.”

“God made us in His image and we let Him down. He’s cleaning house, as He did with the Flood.”

She’s a tough one, Singh. Lovable but unshakable in her faith. Quit while you’re ahead—while you’ve still got a head.

“See what you’ve done there?” Singh said with a good-natured laugh. “You’ve tied up the whole situation in a neat little package: God made us, he owns us, and he’s simply performing a periodic winnowing. Everything explained. I can stop thinking now.”

“Better than ‘Shit happens,’ I’ll tell you that.”

Abby was always a good counterpuncher. But behind all that Nigel sensed a growing rapport between the two of them. Not affection, but a connection. Singh seemed a decent sort. Hadn’t he found an ambulance to bring them here? Under different circumstances Nigel might be jealous, but he was glad Abby wouldn’t be alone when he... left. And Singh was doing a good job of keeping her from going all God-Squaddy. He was good for her.

I was good for her too. Wasn’t I? I must have been good for something other than chasing down other people’s miseries for news.

“But shit does happen,” Singh said. “Take lung cancer. Easily ninety percent of cases are due to smoking. That’s a comforting symmetry to non-smokers: ‘Oh well, he smoked; that won’t happen to me.’ Most of the remaining cancers are due to radon or asbestos or some other environmental factor. But what of the little old lady living a clean life out in the country who develops a primary lung tumor? Shit happens—shit, in this case, being a spontaneous mutation from unrepaired replication errors or random molecular events. It could have been other shit, like abnormal cell division or transposons and such, but let’s just stick with a spontaneous mutation. That first plague fly was a spontaneous mutation: Shit happened.”

“How do you know that?”

Good question.

“My brother told me. He was an expert on insect mutations.”

“Maybe it wasn’t so ‘spontaneous.’ Maybe God caused that mutation and—”

Nigel heard himself half groan, half sigh as he slipped another notch—the next-to-last notch.

Abby’s grip tightened on his hand. He could feel her warm breath on his face as she leaned over him.

“Nigel! Nigel, what’s wrong?”

You’re kidding, right? You know perfectly well what’s wrong. This is it. The last ride. The big adventure.

I’m scared, Abby.

I’m scared. Make it stop.

And then light, pale yellow, diffuse, as if seen through fogged glass, grew in his vision.

“Is the sun rising?” He could barely hear his own voice.

“Soon, honey. Soon, but not yet.”

“I see light.”

“The light!” Her hand crushed his fingers. He didn’t mind. “What else, Nigel? What else?”

Something moving in the light...

A semi-translucent figure approached through the glow—small, with an unsteady gait. The closer it came, the sharper its features until he recognized...

Bandora.

Nigel might have laughed if the little guy hadn’t been holding a beige capsule. He heard a faceless priest’s words echo from his Catholic boyhood: Take and eat, for this is my body.

That unholy communion still haunted him

And then he remembered Singh’s words from minutes or hours ago: They see the source of their redemption...

Is that what I’m seeing?

“Nigel?” Abby’s voice echoed from far away as Bandora began to fade with the light. “What do you see?”

Bandora dissolved. Smoke. Unreal. A figment. Hypoxia...

Only formless gray now. The void opening as everything shut down.

No God. Just nothing.

Poor Abby...

Poor Nigel.

I’m scared. I don’t want to go.

“I see...”

Nothing.

No. Don’t be that man. Not in this last moment. The only moment left. Let her think you’re saved. A vital lie...

Summoning the last of his strength, he took as deep a breath as he could and stretched his face into a smile. “I see Him, Abs... all white light and shining... too bright to look at... going home...”

And then the gray closed in for good.

ABBY

“Nigel?” Abby shook him, gently. “Nigel, don’t go. Please, don’t go!”

He couldn’t go, couldn’t be gone. Not Nigel. She’d known he was dying but she’d never accepted that he’d die. She thought she’d prepared herself for it but she hadn’t. She looked up, her eyes blurring with tears that burned right down to her heart. On the other side of the dunes the sky was turning red with a new day but Nigel was gone and what good was a new day without Nigel?

She sobbed and felt ready to fly apart. She wanted to run into the sea and let it consume her. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Going home. That’s what he’d said. She looked up at the red sky. He’d seen God. Even for all Nigel’s sins and his raging against her belief, He had come for him. God had chosen to take Nigel and leave her. She could cry. She could grieve. But she could not doubt her Lord.

Nigel was saved.

She closed her eyes, and in the first warm rays of the sun, she tilted her head back and sent up a silent prayer of thanks and love.

When she finally looked round, she saw Singh, kneeling beside Nigel, his face wet with tears.

“After what you told me about him,” he said softly, “he must have loved you very much.”

“We loved each other more than we knew, I think. Certainly more than we let on.” The terrible truth of those words pierced her. “But you barely knew him.”

“I researched him, I’ve been following him. I knew him well enough to appreciate his dying words.”

Abby had too big a hole in her life right now to wonder what he was talking about. Nigel... her Nigel was gone.

They buried Nigel on the beach he loved.

Gan—he’d asked her to call him Gan—found a folding shovel in a compartment of the ambulance and dug the grave. After Nigel was covered and rocks placed to mark the spot, Abby prayed over him while Gan stood silently by. When she was done, she forced herself to turn away and start back up the dune. Near the top she turned and saw Gan squatting beside the grave. He pressed a hand into the pile of sand and left a deep print.

“Why did you do that?”

Did it have a meaning? Some Hindu thing?

“He was a good man.”

“Why do you say that? I wouldn’t think that you... after your family...”

“It became clear to me in his last moments.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know.” As she turned away and continued up the dune she thought she heard him whisper, “I doubt you ever will.”

ABBY

Funny, she thought, realizing it wasn’t very funny at all, that she and Nigel had always fantasized about living together in a house in Sandbanks. Their holidays in Poole were always in bed and breakfasts or small hotels, but they’d drive along the row of sea-front mansions and laugh—back in the days when they laughed a lot—as they decided which one they liked best, which one was too tacky, and how life was going to be when they were part of that exclusive club of homeowners.

It would never happen of course. The houses in Sandbanks cost upward of seven or eight million. Even if Nigel had written the novel he’d never really got round to starting, they would have to have been the luckiest couple in the world to make enough to buy a dream house. And anyway, the dream had always been enough. The small fantasy. The drive and the shared wishing, and then back into Poole for dinner and sex with the sea air still in their hair.

Now, in a way, they had become kind of a Sandbanks couple. Not like they’d dreamed, but still...

She’d chosen a house—a mansion—with huge ceiling-to-floor windows where she could look out and see the beach where he was buried whenever she needed too, even in winter when it eventually came. The original owners were nowhere to be seen—a smart stylish couple in their forties, judging by the photographs and sailing clothes in the cupboards—and she figured they wouldn’t be coming back.

Most of the houses were empty. This one wouldn’t be though. She would make this her home. The air was clean, no dead bodies lying in the streets, and Nigel was near her. Why would she want to be anywhere else?

After they’d buried Nigel, she felt an awkwardness with Gan, as if the thin thread that connected them had been broken, which in a way it had. They were strangers brought together by the world crumbling around them, and now that Nigel was dead, it felt like the morning after a one-night stand where something so intimate had been shared and then a new day dawned and you had nothing to say to each other.

She’d told him she was going to stay here—close to her husband. He had nodded and said that he would likely move on. He had no wife to get back to even before the plague—his life had been a quiet one: his work, his patients and occasional visits to his brother’s family. He had liked it that way. She had nodded and scrambled up the sandy steps to the mile-long stretch of mansions and begun her search for one to live in.

“Get away from here!” came from one—a sickly scream, but whoever was inside still managed to launch a bottle from the window. Abby hadn’t noticed Gan following her until he grabbed her and pulled her back from the missile’s path.

At first he’d said he’d stay until she was settled. He took the ambulance on several trips into Poole and loaded it with supplies. He was vague about where he’d found everything. Left behind by dead hoarders, she guessed.

He found a generator. Fuel. Food. Medicines. Cases and cases of bottled water. Wine too. The house was big enough to store it all. He also brought two shotguns and boxes of shells.

She wondered why he’d brought two. She could only fire one, and he’d insisted he was leaving.

Three days later he was still here.

They sat out on the beautiful verandah and stared out over the sea. Abby had cooked them a spaghetti dinner and between them they’d drunk a bottle of good red wine. The air was still warm and the sea sang to them in the silent world.

“Can I stay?” Gan asked, eventually. “I don’t want to live alone.”

“But you told me you’ve always lived alone.”

“When I was surrounded by a city full of people, I preferred alone. Now when they’re all gone...” He shrugged.

Somehow, she understood.

“Sure. There’s no shortage of rooms, that’s for sure.”

She didn’t look at him but down at the beach where the sand shifted in the breeze. The rocks marking Nigel’s grave stayed firm. She’d be happy to have Gan around. Abby was not a loner and the world was too empty now for two people who knew each other to walk in different directions. She sipped her wine and quietly mourned her husband. The sky was finally darkening into midnight blue when Gan spoke again.

“Did you ever hear of the Toba catastrophe?”

Soft. Melodic. He had a beautiful speaking voice, she realized.

“No. What was it?”

‘A volcano erupted in Indonesia some 75,000 years ago.”

She smiled at him. “How old do you think I am?”

The wine buzzed in her blood. Despite everything, she felt okay. Maybe not fine—maybe she wouldn’t be fine for a long time—but okay.

“Very funny. But it’s relevant.” He rested his feet on the top bar of the sleek steel verandah railings and leant back in his chair. “You see, it didn’t just erupt—it supererupted, throwing so much debris into the air that a volcanic winter followed, triggering the last ice age. Do you know how long that ice age lasted?”

Abby shook her head, listening.

“Ten thousand years, although it was the ash fall that proved lethal to most of humanity. At the end of the dying from the volcanic winter and the ash, the number of human survivors in the whole world equaled the population of pre-plague Glastonbury. Fewer than ten thousand mating pairs.”

“Good God!” Abby turned away from the beach—from Nigel—and stared.

“I don’t know about ‘good,’ but the event caused a genetic bottleneck that changed humanity forever. We were a much more diverse species before the catastrophe.”

“And you’re saying we’re facing another of those now?”

She hadn’t asked him about the population in Poole when he’d fetched their supplies, but he hadn’t mentioned meeting anyone and she’d understood what that meant. The plague had gripped England and the rest of the world and wasn’t letting go. The TV had given up even pretending to broadcast and the only thing on the radio was a pre-recorded message telling people to stay inside away from the flies.

“I’ve no doubt of it. Peoples like the Inuit will probably remain unaffected, because no flies will be wandering above the Arctic Circle. I suppose a certain number of refugees will flee north, but the rest of humanity... we’re witnessing a kind of species entropy, the birth pangs of a different human race, a genetic change so profound that I can’t blame anyone who imagines the hand of god in it.”

“Of course, you had to say ‘imagine,’ didn’t you.”

He smiled. “Of course.”

He reminded her of Nigel. Not on the outside, of course, but they were certainly intellectual bedfellows, although Gan was gentler in his approach to her beliefs. Similar but different. If only two people were to remain in this corner of Armageddon then there could be worse pairings.

Pairings...she flushed slightly at the realization that her thought had mirrored his words.

Mating pairs.

Certainly he didn’t expect them to...no, she couldn’t see that happening.

But company...company would be nice.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Christopher Golden is the award-winning, bestselling author of such novels as The Myth Hunters, Wildwood Road, The Boys Are Back in Town, The Ferryman, Strangewood, Of Saints and Shadows, and Snowblind, Tin Men and Dead Ringers. Visit him online at www.christophergolden.com.

James A. Moore is an award winning author of over twenty-five novels, including the critically acclaimed Serenity Falls trilogy and the Seven Forges fantasy series. His recurring anti-hero, Jonathan Crowley has appeared in half a dozen novels with more to come. Visit him online at www.jamesamoorebooks.com.

Sarah Pinborough is a critically acclaimed award-winning author of horror, crime and YA fiction. She has also written for New Tricks on the BBC, and has a horror film and an original TV series in development. She lives in London. Visit her online at www.sarahpinborough.com.

David B. Silva is the Bram Stoker and World Fantasy Award-winning author of seven novels. His short fiction has appeared in The Year’s Best Horror, The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror, and The Best American Mystery Stories. He served as the editor of The Horror Show from 1982 to 1991. He passed away in 2013.

Robert Swartwood is the USA Today bestselling author of The Serial Killer’s Wife, Man of Wax, The Calling, and several other novels. He created the term “hint fiction” and is the editor of Hint Fiction: An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer. Visit him online at www.robertswartwood.com.

F. Paul Wilson is an award-winning, New York Times bestselling author of over 50 novels in many genres and numerous short stories translated into twenty-four languages. He is best known as creator of the urban mercenary Repairman Jack. Visit him online at www.repairmanjack.com.

Midnight Duets © 2015 by the collected authors.

The collected novels are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors’ imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the authors.

Walk the Sky copyright © 2013 Robert Swartwood and David B. Silva

Bloodstained Oz copyright © 2005 by Christopher Golden and James A. Moore

A Necessary End copyright © 2013 by Sarah Pinborough and F. Paul Wilson