Primitive

J. F. Gonzalez

First Digital Edition

July 2009

Published by:

Delirium Books

P.O. Box 338

North Webster, IN 46555

sales@deliriumbooks.com

www.deliriumbooks.com

Primitive copyright 2009 by J. F. Gonzalez

Cover Artwork copyright 2009 by Mike Bohatch

All Rights Reserved.

Copy Editors: David Marty and Steve Souza

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To Cathy and Hannah

My Tribe for life.

Acknowledgements

Novels are not written alone and I'd like to take this opportunity to thank a few people who were instrumental in the development and writing of Primitive.

Shane Ryan Staley, Larry Roberts, Don Koish, Don D'Auria, and Steve Calcutt for aiding and abetting.

Tod Clark, Bob Strauss, Jamie LaChance, and Kelli Dunlap for making sure I looked presentable.

Weston Ochse for secrets you don't want to know about.

Brian and Cassi Keene, Wrath James White, Bob Ford, David Nordhaus, Gord Rollo, Gene O'Neill, Jamie LaChance, Kelli Dunlap, Bob Ford, Tod Clark, Bob Strauss, Gary Zimmerman, and Michael Laimo for their friendship and online comraderie.

To Stuart David Schiff for lending his name to a character in this novel on behalf of a charity auction he won. The proceeds were donated to Protect.org (www.protect.org), a charity I support myself. Thanks also to Matt Schwartz for hosting the auction in the first place!

Ken Atkins, Jeremiah Brown, Mark Robinson, and Bob "Isn't That Neat?!" Fegley for technical insight, support, and all the laughter they provided during the research of this novel.

Cathy and Hannah Gonzalez get their own paragraph because they deserve it.

Finally, to all my faithful readers and MySpace friends: I wouldn't be able to do this if it weren't for you. I hope to keep telling stories like this for a long time.

One

For some reason I slept in on the morning the world ended.

Tracy had risen at her usual time of six-thirty, made the kids' breakfast, got them dressed, then packed them up for the drive to Eric's day care center in Pasadena. Eric was nine and had a mild form of autism. The facility in question was one that specialized in kids with disabilities; most of it mental like extreme forms of ADD and hyperactivity, or mild forms of retardation and autism. Tracy returned just as I was pouring my first cup of coffee and browsing through the morning paper. Emily, our daughter, was sitting with me at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal.

I heard police and fire engine sirens. I didn't think much about it because we lived in Los Angeles County, in the foothills of Pasadena, to be exact. It was just something you got used to.

Tracy went right to work in her office that morning (she was a freelance graphic artist and corporate web designer) and had only gotten fifteen minutes of work done when the phone rang.

I'll remember that phone call for the rest of my life.

Tracy picked it up on the extension in her office. I heard her voice rise with fear. "What? What are you saying?"

I was sitting at the kitchen table with Emily, who was eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes. We looked up at the sound of her voice.

"You've got to be kidding!" Now her voice was panicked and grief-stricken.

Fearing the worst, I made my way downstairs to her office. "What's the matter?" Emily asked.

"Stay there, sweetie," I told her calmly.

From Tracy's office: "Nooooo!"

I reached the office just as Tracy slumped over her desk. She was sobbing uncontrollably, still clutching the phone in one hand. Something bad had happened, and for some reason I knew it had to do with Eric.

I snatched the phone out of Tracy's hand and placed it to my ear. "This is David, Tracy's husband. What's wrong?"

I recognized the woman's voice on the other end of the line. It was Jessica Rendell, the director of the daycare Eric attended. Her voice was grave. "I'm sorry Mr. Spires, but there's been an accident at the school. Eric's been—"

"They killed Eric!" Tracy wailed.

"What happened to him?" I felt my body grow cold.

"—there's chaos here. We're in lockdown, and I'm locked in my office. We're trying to get the police, but—"

"What's going on?" I said. I think I actually shouted that question.

"He's dead, he's dead, and some other kid killed my baby!" Tracy brayed. She was losing all control of herself.

In the chaos that ensued that morning I remember several things. They're still imprinted in my memory bank as fleeting images: Emily standing at the doorway to Tracy's office with wide, frightened eyes; Tracy losing control of her emotions; me feeling dead and wooden at the thought of Eric dead; my life crumbling around me and feeling powerless to do anything about it.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," I said. I could feel myself trembling.

"Eric attacked another boy in his class this morning," Jessica said, her voice still sounding shocked. "I don't know the details except Eric attacked him and managed to kill him. The teacher that pulled Eric off was attacked, too. In fact, he attacked several teachers, even bit some of them. He had to be wrestled to the ground and then another kid attacked the day care provider that was trying to help us hold Eric down and...he fell and Eric...I think his neck broke." Jessica was starting to cry. "I think he's dead."

At the sound of those words I went numb.

Jessica continued, still crying. "And then there's all the police activity outside and we can't get any—"

"What police activity?" I asked. I realize now that I was starting to go into a mild shock. I couldn't process what was happening fast enough.

"I don't know!" Jessica said. "But there's police and fire engines all over the place, and I think there's a fire on Colorado Boulevard. I can see smoke over there."

Tracy could only cry at her desk. Emily was crying too, huddled in the doorway.

My mind was still trying to process what I'd learned. "You're saying my son...Eric...attacked another kid?"

There was a loud crash in the background on the other end of the line and I heard Jessica yell, "Oh my God!"

"What's going on?" I shouted.

There were sounds of a struggle and then screaming. It sounded like Jessica. There were other voices too. Savage, animal-like sounds.

They sounded like children when they play animals.

Remember when you were a kid and you'd get together with other kids in the neighborhood and pretend to be animals? One kid would be the lion, another a wolf, maybe another was some kind of bird? And you'd run around the backyard in the role of whatever totem animal you had chosen to emulate? The sounds you made always had to imitate whatever animal you were pretending to be. What I heard in the background sounded like a bunch of kids pretending to be lions or eagles or something, only there was no underlying hint of play in their voices. It was almost like these kids were deadly serious at their play-acting.

Amid these sounds were others; that of adults doing the same thing.

And in the background, Jessica screamed over and over.

What the hell was going on?

"Jessica!" I shouted.

Behind me, Tracy wailed. "Eric!"

Jessica's scream was abruptly cut off, but the animal-like sounds continued.

I turned to Emily, who was cowering by the doorway. "Go to your room and close the door, honey."

For a minute Emily could only stand there crying. She looked torn between wanting to be with her mommy and doing what her daddy just told her to do. When I nodded at her, trying my best to maintain my composure in the situation, she retreated. I heard her shuffling footsteps pad down the hall along with the beginning sounds of her crying.

When she was gone I turned my attention back to the receiver. "Jessica!"

All I could hear was the wild sounds of those children, or what I thought were children.

I pressed the disconnect button, switched to the second line we had, and dialed 911.

And got a busy signal.

"Jesus," I muttered. I disconnected, tried again. A third time.

Tracy suddenly got up from her chair. "I've got to go over there," she fumbled for her purse and I immediately put the phone down.

"You're not going anywhere," I said.

Tracy reacted as if she hadn't heard me. She was still crying. "I've got to go get him. I've got to go over there." Her purse slung over her shoulder, she tried to squeeze past me. I grabbed her and shoved her back in her office.

"No! We're staying here!"

"We have to go get Eric!" She shrieked at me. She made to brush past me again. She had that determined look in her eyes and it was starting to influence the rest of her behavior, too. I knew I didn't have that much time before it would take drastic measures to reverse the situation, like a knockout blow.

I grabbed her shoulders. "I've already talked to Jessica," I said. "They're taking Eric to the hospital. The police want us to stay here."

"You're lying!"

Two blocks south of us, sirens rose in the distance. "Hear that? That's probably them going to the school to pick up Eric." I was making stuff up as I went along, a holdover from my pulp-writing roots, I guess. "When I talked to them they said they would send somebody to the house to pick us up. They'll take us to him."

For some reason that seemed to resonate with her. Once again, she collapsed emotionally. She settled herself back down in her office chair, her purse sliding off her shoulder, and started bawling again.

I knelt in front of her. I felt like an idiot because I had no idea what to do. I was confused and scared. Everything was coming at me so fast that I didn't know how to react. I've never had shit unravel on me at such lightning speed. I tried to ride it out the best I could. "I'm going to see how Emily is. You sit here and wait until I come get you. If the phone rings, I'll answer it. I'll take care of everything, okay?"

Tracy nodded and I could tell she understood me completely. She was finally allowing me to take over.

I got up and went down the hall to Emily's room.

Emily was sitting on her bed amid mountains of stuffed animals. Her knees were drawn up to her chin and she was crying. I sat down on the bed. "Honey, Daddy has something very important to do right now and I need you to help me."

Emily nodded. Tears streamed down her face.

"I need you to stay in your room. If you hear anything in the hall or in your mommy's office, don't come out. Mommy's real upset now and I have to help her."

"I want to help her, too!" Emily said.

"I know honey," I rubbed her knee. "And you'll be helping her by staying in your room and out of her way. You'll be a great help in doing that, okay?"

Emily nodded again. She started sobbing. "What's wrong with Eric, Daddy?" A sensitive, intelligent child, Emily was very aware of Eric's handicap.

"I don't know honey, but that's what I need to help Mommy with. Now just stay in your room until I come get you, okay?"

"Are we going to go get him?"

"Yes, we are." What else was I going to tell her?

Emily nodded and I patted her knee again, knowing even at that early stage being reassuring wasn't going to be much help. Then I went back into Tracy's office.

Tracy was hunched over, her face buried in her hands. She was still crying. "I'm going to go call the officer I just spoke to," I said, the lie springing forth effortlessly. "I'll be back in a minute."

If Tracy heard me she gave no indication. I closed the door to her office and went into the living room.

We lived in a rather hilly section of the San Gabriel Mountains. Our neighborhood was nice, with homes ranging from condo units to Craftsman and Spanish-style homes that were in the six-figure range. The home we were in was owned by a producer I knew who lived on the East Coast. He was renting the place to us and we'd been living there for four years, paying rent that was comparable to that of a three-bedroom apartment. In short, it was a steal, and the extra money I was socking away was going into a savings account that we had earmarked for a down payment on our own house someday. I owned one-quarter interest in a cabin in the Sierras with my parents and sister, and if I wasn't with Tracy and earning my living in the script mines of Hollywood, that's where I'd probably be living. The street we lived on was quiet, the houses tucked into little enclaves and alcoves in the hills. It was like living in the country when you were only less than a mile from the city. In short, my neighborhood was very quiet and peaceful.

I could hear the sirens from the living room as I turned the TV on with the remote.

The living room was dark, the windows open enough to allow the breeze to blow through the screen. The first channel I went to was the local news and what I saw stunned me even though I'd mentally prepared myself for it.

There was a wide shot from a helicopter hovering over what looked like South-Central Los Angeles. For a moment I thought I was watching a re-run of the 1992 LA riots. I was living in the heart of Pasadena at the time, in a little one-bedroom apartment off Colorado Boulevard, and I remember being glued to the TV as those three days of civil unrest unfolded. What I was watching now seemed to be an eerie repeat of those events.

There were bands of people chasing after speeding motorists. There were several bodies lying on sidewalks and on the street. There was somebody hunched over one of the bodies, and the camera cut away to focus on another spate of activity below: a half dozen people converged on a convenience store and stormed inside. The newscaster's voice was about as calm and professional as could be when reporting on a situation like this. "...what we are seeing here just defies all logic, all common sense. The people that just entered that convenience store are probably going to find the owner, who we already know has shot at several of the rioters with what appears to be a handgun and—"

Another riot? I thought. What triggered it this time? I couldn't think of any recent strains in race relations, although I knew from being a life-long resident of Los Angeles that it was always a very real issue. I flipped to the next channel and saw another view taken from atop a building somewhere in downtown Los Angeles. Smoke from several fires was rising and the newscaster this time was female. "...has called a tactical alert on the suggestion of FEMA and the—"

FEMA? Why was FEMA involved in a tactical alert in Los Angeles?

I flipped to CNN. The scene was similar, but as I watched the story unfold I saw that the live feed was coming out of Philadelphia. A fire was burning out of control in the heart of the city. The camera feed changed to Washington, D.C. Mobs of people were milling in front of the White House, some attacking each other. The newscaster's voice was grim. "...sharpshooters have killed a dozen people who tried to storm the White House grounds and we're just getting word now that some of those sharpshooters have abandoned their posts and were gunned down by their fellow officers. We're not entirely clear what the reason is, but we can only assume that those officers fired in self-defense."

What the hell was going on?

I continued flipping through the channels: FOX, CNN 1 and 2, MSNBC. All were reporting on the same thing. All the network stations had pre-empted their regularly scheduled programming and were plugged into various news outlets. Local stations had abandoned their daily fare of morning talk shows. Like those dark three days in 1992, I was spellbound by what was happening.

If you're reading this you know what was happening. You saw it yourself. You likely first became aware of the chaos via the news, saw live feeds of people attacking each other brutally with their hands, their fists. You saw them ravage each other with their teeth, saw them fighting to the death. You saw the victors walking away from battered corpses as if nothing had happened. You might have even seen them pause at the body to inspect it with a curious sense of detachment.

You might have even seen acts of cannibalism.

You probably also heard the commentators scramble for an explanation as to what was happening and fail miserably. You were probably witness to the horror of when it was discovered that local governments were disintegrating, that members of Congress were joining the ranks of the mad and behaving in animal-like fashion. You probably sat spellbound in front of your TV the first few hours as chaos began to unravel outside your home, in your city, and you watched it unfold in a sense of numb, fascinated horror. You tried to make sense of it. You tried to process what the news commentators were trying to grasp themselves: that people were losing their minds and blindly attacking each other, that the police were shooting them, that some officers were attacking each other and turning on civilians. You also realized, as the days went on, that the police and the National Guardsmen that had been called in at various cities were not turning on each other or the civilians they were trying to subdue and/or protect with their firearms but, rather, with their bare hands. They were abandoning their weapons. In fact, I would bet that if you saw something happen like this live, you would have seen a once normal police officer using his weapon to protect himself and then suddenly drop it and lunge at somebody like a wild animal, as if he or she had completely forgotten what the weapon even was.

You would have learned very quickly that communications were jammed, that police and fire units were stretched thinly, that hospitals were on lockdown.

Maybe you snapped out of your numbness when the television station you were watching went out.

That didn't happen to me. I watched twenty minutes of TV, still trying to make sense of what was going on, trying to logically find order out of the chaos and hoping that someone, somewhere, would come on and offer a rational explanation as to what was happening. That never happened. What broke the reverie for me was the sound of sirens outside.

I got up from the sofa and went to the kitchen window. The shades were drawn, and as I peered through I saw that my neighborhood looked deserted. Most people in my neighborhood worked outside of the home, but there was always the occasional stay-at-home mom, or somebody home sick, or on vacation, or whatever. I saw nobody had ventured outside to see what was going on. Maybe they were glued to their own televisions. The sirens were coming from the streets below, and from the TV I heard the local commentator say that the Mayor of Los Angeles had called for Martial Law.

That's when survival mode began to kick in for me.

I went to my office, which I had chiseled out of a large corner of the family room. When Tracy and I moved into this house we gave the kids their own bedrooms and Tracy claimed the fourth as her office. Since I did most of my work in the dead of night, it made sense to carve out office space in the family room where I could work uninterrupted during the day when the kids were at daycare, or at night when they were asleep. I went to my large desk, unlocked one of the side drawers and pulled out my Sig Sauer P226 9mm handgun. It was loaded. If she were in her right mind, Tracy would have hollered blue murder about keeping a loaded gun in the house. She knew about the guns, of course (in addition to the Sig, I had a Kimber 1911 .45 handgun and a Ruger .22 rifle my dad gave me for my eighteenth birthday—a genuine hunting rifle that I never used for hunting, but I could certainly tear up a paper target with it). She wasn't happy with them, especially with kids in the house. I'd placated her by disassembling them when she and Eric moved in with me and showed her that, yes, they'll be disassembled at all times and stored in hard-to-reach places so Eric won't run across them and blow his brains out. Right. Two weeks later, while Eric was with his therapist and Tracy was meeting with a client, I reassembled the pistols and locked them in my upper desk drawer. It never made sense to me to have a disassembled weapon while living in a city known for its high crime rate. Instead, it just made more sense to me to be a responsible gun owner.

I'd purchased a holster for the handguns at one point, and as I pulled the slide back on the Sig and ejected the magazine to do a brief inspection of the weapon, I realized I'd have to don it if I wanted to be mobile. I snapped the magazine back in, made sure the safety was engaged, and headed downstairs to the bedroom Tracy and I shared and quickly found the holster in one of my bottom drawers. I could hear her sobbing in her office. Emily came out of her room and stood in the threshold of the master bedroom as I quickly changed into a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, fresh socks and tennis shoes. I put the holster on my waist and slipped the Sig into the right holster. I would put the Kimber in the holster that was positioned at the small of my back a little later. Not once did I feel like some clichéd old west hero.

I pulled the T-shirt over the holster, concealing the weapon, and turned to Emily. "You okay, hon?"

Emily nodded. She still looked frightened. "Is Eric all right?"

I knelt down in front of her. "Everything's going to be fine. I have to go talk to Mommy real quick. I need you to go back to your room and sit on the bed for me. Don't go near the windows, okay?" Emily's bedroom window overlooked the neighborhood below us and my paranoid mind was already at work. If crazy people started roaming into our neighborhood, I didn't want them to see us.

Emily nodded. "Okay."

I made sure she got to her room, and then I went into Tracy's office.

I knew I'd have to wing it, knew I'd have to take charge, to be a man and lead the effort to keep us safe. I knew that would mean making some hard choices. I knelt in front of Tracy, who was finally gaining control of her emotions. Her eyes were red, her face moist with tears. "What did the police say?" she asked.

"The police want us to stay inside," I said, once again the lie slipping out effortlessly. "There's something going on outside and it's all over the news. They want—"

That perked her up. She whirled in her cushy office chair back to her workstation and reached for her mouse. The screen saver was deactivated and she opened a web browser. When she tried to reach a news website, she got a 503 screen: service unavailable.

"Internet traffic is probably really heavy," I said, remembering what it was like on 9/11. "TV is on."

She got up and brushed past me toward the stairs. I followed her up and noticed Emily had come out of her room. She was watching us from the bottom of the stairs.

Tracy stood in the center of the living room, riveted to CNN. Her look of shock was genuine, her fear was real and primal. "My God...what's happening?"

"I don't know."

A male newscaster was broadcasting. It was hard to tell where in the building he was. It looked like a supply room, maybe even a conference room. He looked frightened. "The situation is getting worse by the minute. As you saw a few minutes ago, the chaos made its way into the CNN News Center here in Atlanta."

Cut to a previously recorded news feed from not too long ago; the newscaster was reporting on the topic at hand when suddenly somebody hunched over the computer monitors in the background, let out a primal scream, and leaped over the desk. His target was somebody off camera, who gave a panicked yell. The newscaster stopped what he was doing and somebody else in the background made another noise—it sounded like a growl—and turned on a co-worker. There was a brief glimpse of the newscaster's panicked face and then the picture went black.

Back to the present and the undisclosed location. The newscaster's rumpled, frightened appearance was now accounted for. "If I hadn't been on my toes my cameraman and I might not be here. The speed of whatever it is that's happening—call it mass chaos—is astonishing. As you saw, one minute things were normal or as normal as any newsroom is in a situation like this, and the next we had utter...utter...chaos."

Tracy and I stood in the living room and watched. Emily crept upstairs and stood between us. She watched, too. And for the next ten minutes, the newscaster summed everything up very neatly:

For some unknown reason people were going absolutely bugfuck.

In fact, that was the term he used. Yes, he actually said "bugfuck" on live TV.

Considering the rapid state in which everything was falling down around us, I didn't blame him.

I doubt the FCC was keeping tabs, either.

People were going bugfuck. One minute they were fine, in the next they were reduced to primitive, mindless hordes. They were attacking each other, and those who somehow managed to avoid being reduced to a mindless primitive, were either being killed or seriously wounded. Primitive was the only word I could think of to describe them. My first thought, of course, since I was an occasional writer of horror novels, was that they were turning into zombies. But these weren't Romero-like zombies who lumbered about and chomped on human flesh. They weren't even those new zombies that moved fast or bore some semblance of intelligence like those popularized by the film 28 Days Later or the Brian Keene novel The Rising. Those that were assaulted and killed by these primitives didn't rise from the dead in a similar state. Those poor suckers stayed dead. Instead, it was almost as if some invisible button had been pushed by God to reduce people from civilized thinking human beings to these animal-like creatures.

That's what the newscaster said in a nutshell. Whatever was causing this was widespread. Reports were coming in from all over the world. Nobody knew where it started, and the newscaster told us with grim certainty that his partner, so far unaffected, was currently barricaded in his office trying to research the story further. "This had to have started from somewhere," he said, his features grim. "I find it impossible to believe that all of a sudden people just started reverting to this state."

And then, in that instant, my mind flashed back on an incident I'd almost forgotten.

I was driving home from a meeting and was near the intersection of Hollywood and Vine, when I saw a weird homeless guy. He was crouched behind a parked car, and he was looking around at passersby as if he were deeply afraid. Something about him made me think he was a cave-man at first. He was dirty, his long hair disheveled, his eyes wild-looking. I wouldn't have noticed him if my attention hadn't happened on a weird drawing on the wall of a building, about thirty feet away from him. It was a drawing which I'll get to later in this narrative. Needless to say, it in no way resembled the gang scrawls you see spray-painted on walls, nor did it resemble the colorful artwork graffiti-artists painted. This thing looked crude, and appeared to be some sort of flying thing with horns. That's the best way I can describe it.

I mentioned the incident to Tracy that evening just before dinner during a rehash of our respective days. And as we talked I didn't even connect it with the other events that were making headlines. It wasn't until that moment when it all came together for me.

Seemingly unrelated incidents at first glance, and I'm sure you'll probably remember how things started out in your neck of the woods. I wasn't even aware of the beginning, of the news coming out of the Middle East that an unknown airborne virus was affecting the human nervous system, that various government agencies both here and abroad were trying to keep a lid on it. That the virus, whatever it was, spread like wildfire throughout Asia and Europe within the space of two weeks. Blame that on my hectic schedule. I suppose I became concerned one night a week before when I sat down to watch the news one evening. The news footage showed scenes of a riot in France, and the reporter made vague references to some virus that was believed to have gotten the rioters in a frenzy. I remember telling Tracy, who was sitting up late with me that evening, that this was the first I'd heard of it and she said, "I've been hearing stuff about this off and on over the past few days...where have you been?" I knew where I'd been, all right. I'd been deep inside my head, working on an overdue novel for my publisher.

There were other things, too. A series of unprovoked assaults in Malibu, a trucker mowing down pedestrians in San Bernardino, an APB was out on a lab worker who killed a bunch of co-workers and stole a bunch of stuff from some laboratory in Massachusetts, some crazy fucker in New Jersey was running around foaming at the mouth and attacking people—biting them in most cases. And then there was the usual shit going on around the world: more news of genocide in Rwanda, more bombings in Iraq, Lebanon, and Israel. Soccer fans in Brazil went on a rampage during a big game resulting in a riot, and the U.S. managed to deter a possible nuclear confrontation with those crazy fuckers in Iran.

It was at this point that Tracy's eyes darted around the living room, from the windows to the front door, then to me. "We've got to get Eric," she said. She bolted for the front door.

My reflexes were quick and I intercepted her. "No!" I said firmly. I grabbed her shoulders, forcing her away from the front door. "We can't go out there, it isn't safe."

"I have to get my son!" Tracy shrieked and suddenly she was crying again.

"The police are taking care of it," I said, lying once again. "You saw what's happening on the news! We don't know what—"

"I don't care what's going on out there! I'm going to get my son!"

She tried to move past me and I grabbed her again.

"Let me go!" She shoved me, headed for the door again.

I grabbed her from behind, my forearm hooking around her throat and drawing her back towards me.

"Let me go, you bastard!" She drove her left elbow into my stomach just as I sensed that would be the move she would make. Tracy had taken a martial arts course a few years ago and I was well versed in some of her moves thanks to dinnertime discussion. Still, I couldn't deflect the blow fully and I grunted as her elbow connected firmly with my side. I countered by applying my index finger to a pressure point on her right shoulder near her collarbone. She dropped like a stone.

From behind me: "Mommy!"

Emily came running up and I felt like shit now for our daughter having seen this. I dropped to my knees beside Tracy, trying to placate Emily at the same time. "She's okay, Emily, she's fine!"

Emily ignored me and continued to call out for her mother, who lay unconscious on the entry hall floor.

I picked up Emily, who collapsed in my arms, and carried her back downstairs to her room.

I put her on her bed, told her to stay put and that Mommy was fine but that I had to keep her inside the house. Some bad things might be happening outside and I didn't want Mommy going outside to get hurt. Whether she understood or not, I don't know.

When I went back upstairs Tracy was regaining consciousness. She was sitting up on the floor, crying. "You bastard!" she said when she saw me.

"I'm sorry," I said, trying not to sound like the bastard she said I was and probably failing miserably. "But you gave me no choice. You're staying here!"

"What about Eric!" Tracy shrieked.

"He's fine," I said. "The police will escort us to the hospital when everything outside is under control."

"He isn't fine, he's dead you fucking asshole, he's dead, he's dead!"

I felt the first stirrings of loss in the back of my throat. Eric was her firstborn and she was experiencing the extreme trauma of having been told he was brutally murdered. Do I blame her for losing her mind like that? No way.

"I know honey," I managed to say. I think my voice trembled when I said this. I do remember feeling the first signs of wanting to cry myself, but somehow I held it back. "And when this is all over—"

"When this is all over, what? You gonna make it better? Is that what you were gonna say?"

"Tracy—"

"You never loved Eric the way I did. You're probably glad he's dead because of his..." She started sobbing uncontrollably again. "...of his...autism!"

I felt sucker-punched. Of course Tracy was under extreme duress. She didn't know what she was saying. "Tracy, don't say that, it isn't true."

"Bullshit! It's true and you know it!"

"Why would you think something so—"

"Because you won't get off your ass and help me go out and get him, that's why! If you loved him the way I do, you'd do anything to get to him! Anything!"

I didn't know how to react to that. I stood there, dumbfounded, as Tracy sat on the floor in front of our front door and lost her mind.

I realized with a sense of shame that this was true.

If it were Emily I'd probably be behaving the same way. I'd be throwing all sense of caution and rationality to the wind in my effort to get to her, even knowing on an intellectual level that she was dead.

But was I glad that Eric was dead?

No. Of course not.

Tracy cried, her body slumped against the wall. I wanted to try to comfort her, but I knew I would be met with resistance. Even though Eric wasn't my biological son—Tracy and I got together when he was an infant, six months after she divorced her first husband—I treated him as my own child. Yes, his mental handicap was something that was hard for me to get used to. Yes, I tried to work with it, to understand it. And yes, when Emily was born I doted on her probably more fiercely than I did with Eric. But it wasn't out of some sense of entitlement. It was out of a sense of an instinctual love I felt toward her.

I could hear Emily crying behind me as she shuffled into the living room. I could sense she wanted to go to her mother. I was just about to try breaking the ice when there was a loud thump against the front door and then a volley of fists began raining on it.

Two

Tracy reacted instinctively. She jumped away from the door and scuttled to Emily, engulfing her in her arms. I took a step back, my heart lodged in my throat as the volley of blows on the door continued. "Don't say anything," I said.

There was a grunt from outside, more thuds against the door. I drew the Sig Sauer from its holster, thumbed the safety off, and approached the door slowly.

I looked out the peephole.

The fisheye lens gave me a view of our front porch and the walkway leading up to it. Leaning into the door was a person. I couldn't tell who it was, or what sex they were. All I could see was the top of their head, which had thick black hair, and that they were wearing dark-colored clothing. The person was sort of hunched over, leaning his or her shoulder into the door trying to push it open. The deadbolt and the regular lock were engaged, but I knew that even an incredibly strong person could probably break both and gain entry. Judging by the person's behavior, he or she must be a primitive. Why else would they act like that?

"I want you both to go downstairs," I said.

"Who is it?" Tracy asked, her voice a high-pitched, frightened whisper.

"I don't know! Just go downstairs!"

As if sensing that things weren't right, that perhaps what was being depicted and reported on in the news was perhaps now on our front doorstep, Tracy picked up Emily and carried her downstairs.

I turned toward the front door, my mind racing. The sounds continued, accompanied by an unintelligible babbling. It was a man, of that I was certain, but who was he?

I approached the sliding glass door that led from the living room/den to our back deck. I peered through the blinds, which had been shut last night and now cast the room in darkness. Nobody was lurking on the deck. I unlocked the door and slid it open. The deck ran almost the entire length of the house. It was connected to a concrete path on the side of the house that led around to the front. I shut the door and, handgun held up, finger brushing the trigger-guard, crept along the rear wall of the house with my heart pounding.

I remember thinking, as I was traversing the circumference of the house to reach the front, what the hell are you going to do if he's still out there? Shoot him? You've never shot a living thing, much less a human being, in your life. Realizing that, I wondered if I would freeze in some sense of moral fear, afraid of the legal consequence that should befall me after this madness was over and I was brought up on murder charges.

I took a deep breath and banished those questions. I couldn't deal with them now. It seemed that things had changed so rapidly in such a short amount of time that to entertain such thoughts as legal issues over using a firearm in self-defense and the repercussions thereof could prove fatal for me and, ultimately, for Tracy and Emily.

I took a deep breath and paused at the corner that led to the front of the house.

I could still hear the primitive at the front door.

There was a pause in his activity. I wondered if he was retreating, but then I heard shuffling footsteps come my way.

He was moving along the front of the house and, judging from the sounds, he was trying to open one of the windows to get inside.

That decided it. I stepped away from the corner of the house and there he was, fifteen feet away from me. He looked startled as I stepped away from the wall and I saw that he was just a guy my own age. He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and tie, black dress shoes. I didn't recognize him. He could have lived in my neighborhood judging from his appearance. Maybe he had a wife, a family, and they were now either dead or reduced to the same primitive state he was in. His hair was ruffled, the right lens of his glasses shattered. His face was smudged with dirt, as were the knees and elbows of his suit. His eyes reflected all the emptiness of a cow. They were blank, devoid of intelligence or rationality.

I had the gun in front of me in the classic firing position and what I said to him was stupid, but in hindsight I realized I was still clinging to the idea that there was still order in the world. "Who are you?" I said. "What do you want?"

The guy looked at me briefly, and then said, "Aaguh meeearaoowww! Blew aaaugghhh!"

Then he lunged at me.

I pulled the trigger and squeezed off three shots that plugged him square in the chest.

He went down, bleated once, and was silent. The sound of the shots was loud, deafening. My ears rang as I approached the body cautiously, weapon still held out and ready. I stood five feet away from him and watched for any sign of life.

There was none.

I'd just killed a man.

I didn't let that settle into my psyche. I retreated back the way I'd come, slipped onto the rear deck and made it back inside the house. I locked the sliding glass door, made sure the blinds were in place, then engaged the safety and re-holstered the gun. I made my way downstairs.

When I entered the bedroom I said, "It's okay, it's just me."

"What happened?" Tracy said. She and Emily looked frightened.

"What was that noise?" Emily asked.

I knelt in front of them. "It's okay, I got him, he tried to attack me!"

"Who was it?" Tracy hissed. I could see her face in the darkness of our bedroom. Gone was the grief that had been there a moment ago. It was replaced by a sense of stark fear.

"I don't know!"

"What's going on?" Emily cried. She buried her face in Tracy's shoulder.

"He was like some kind of animal," I told Tracy. I was trying to rationalize my act of self-defense. "It was weird, it was like he wasn't even human. He was trying to get in the house, trying to get in through the windows but he couldn't. I mean, he could have broken them with a rock or something but he wasn't doing that. He was just pawing at them, trying to find a way in as if he didn't know how they worked or something, and then when he saw me I asked him what he wanted and he just spoke gibberish. Then he lunged at me and he looked like he was going to kill me. His eyes—"

I stopped. Emily was crying and I could tell Tracy was terrified. How to describe his eyes? "His eyes were...they were...just empty."

I don't remember how long we sat in our room. I was wired, primed for any noise or rustle of movement outside. I was afraid the sound of the gunshots would attract more of them, but that never happened. I heard a lot of gunshots in the distance, and a lot of sounds like crashing and yelling and screaming. I heard sirens. I heard what sounded like genuine automatic gunfire, probably ten blocks away. Through it all the three of us sat in our bedroom, listening as the world outside went mad.

At some point Emily calmed down enough and began to drift off. Tracy laid her on the bed and she drew herself up into a fetal position, thumb corked in her mouth. Tracy covered her with the blanket and we went back upstairs, making sure to leave our bedroom door open.

I'd left the TV on when I went outside to deal with the primitive and CNN was still on. The newscaster was still broadcasting from his secure location and he was talking on a cell phone. Those who were still alive and rational got his half of the conversation. "...where you are you can see that everybody is like this? How many people would you estimate are now in this state?"

I turned down the volume slightly on the television so we would be alert to any unusual sounds outside and I sat down on the sofa. Tracy had a look of shock on her face. Her eyes had a far-away look and her expression was slack, as if she was slow to respond. I know she was still dealing emotionally with Eric's death, and while I was glad she was with me so I could keep an eye on her, I was also worried about her. "You okay?" I asked.

She didn't respond. I asked her again. She looked at me, her eyes red, and her voice sounded strained. "Why is this happening?"

I took her hand and tried to sound and act strong. "I don't know, honey."

The rest of that day went by in a slow haze. We sat on the sofa and watched the news. I flipped from CNN to Fox to the local news. We watched as the situation worsened. As troops were called in, they began reverting to the primitive state themselves and were summarily executed by their comrades. Local police forces were going through the same turmoil. Some newscasters were openly deviating from their prepared scripts, telling their viewers that they believed what was happening had to do with that virus that started in the Middle East and that our government had worked in concert with other governments to cover things up because they were caught off guard and didn't know what the hell to do. We watched as society began unraveling, as civilization broke down so fast it was like watching the twin towers fall all over again. Watching as people roamed the streets like animals, attacking others in mindless fashion, pawing at each other, pausing to relieve themselves or defecate in public.

Elsewhere, the television news camera caught the primitives at various stages; fighting each other, attacking those unaffected, roaming the streets seemingly ignoring each other, and sometimes copulating.

Through it all I paused every now and then to check the back of the house. I made sure all the windows and doors were locked and that the drapes were drawn. I checked out the neighborhood from the kitchen window, which provides a good view of our street, and it was quiet. Checking out the south side of the property, I saw smoke from over a dozen fires rising in various parts of the city. Through the locked windows I could hear sirens, burglar alarms, and more yells and screams. I saw several military helicopters at one point, and later learned that the pilot of one lost control and crashed in Long Beach.

I wonder if he lost control because he'd suddenly changed into a primitive?

Through it all, the newscaster brought me up to speed thanks to his communications via cell phone with the outside world. Tracy and I sat and listened as we learned the following: For some reason people were reverting to what was being described as a primitive state. As a result, they were losing the ability to reason, their speech, whatever previous knowledge and sense of civilized behavior they once had, and were relying on their most basic urges or instincts. In short, they were behaving like animals. When they came across normal people they either fled or attacked ruthlessly. They weren't using weapons, they weren't using cars, and they weren't even communicating with each other.

Whatever was causing this was currently unknown but it was suggested that it was the virus that had been earlier reported to originate in the Middle East. The media was calling it the Havoc Virus. Nobody knew anything about it, much less how it came to be, and the few scientists left who were unaffected were trying to find a cure.

It was rumored that if this was indeed the Havoc Virus, the U. S. Government knew about it early on and sent the National Guard in to major cities in an attempt to clamp a lid on it. One scientist was quoted as saying that the CDC was made aware of the situation a week ago and had been working non-stop to contain its spread but realized they were in a losing battle with a virus that was airborne and 99% communicable.

The problem was global. It was currently unknown where it might have started. Rumors were flying around speculating that the virus may have originated in the Middle East.

The few medical professionals that could be located were adamant in saying they believed it affected the central nervous system, rendering victims in a psychotic, animal-like state.

Despite early efforts by the Federal government to clamp down on the media for news leaks, it was becoming evident that most people in government were affected by the virus and that the President himself was infected.

I flipped to our local CBS affiliate to see if there was any news on the local front.

It was off the air.

"Shit," I said, flipping to NBC, which was still broadcasting. The lone NBC anchor was broadcasting from a secure location. It looked like the bathroom of the building. She looked battered, bruised, and scared. "I can say with all certainty," she said at one point, "that this city is dying and it is not only martial law but it is every man for himself. God help us."

Tracy started crying again. "Why is this happening? Why...where's Eric, what are we going to do about Eric?"

I couldn't listen to Tracy cry about Eric. I got up and made a check of the house again. Everything seemed okay. I took a furtive peek out front and saw a middle-aged man wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else dart down the street. He hid behind an SUV parked in front of the house across the street, peered around it, and then darted to hide behind some bushes. I couldn't tell if he was a primitive or not, but I wasn't going to take the chance to find out.

While Tracy sobbed quietly on the sofa I stole downstairs real quick to check on Emily.

She was asleep in our bed. I checked the bedroom window, which looked out over our backyard, which really wasn't a yard at all. The window overlooked the hills of the canyon our house rested on. I saw no signs of people, normal or primitive, anywhere.

I went upstairs and took a quick inventory of our provisions. We still had plenty of food in the house from our grocery run late last week, everything from fresh fruits and vegetables to canned goods. We had beef and chicken. We had medicine, bandages, plenty of batteries. We had fresh water. Tracy had always insisted on having an "earthquake kit" in the house and I took stock of it now, making sure everything was in place. The house was still being powered by electricity and gas, but who knew how long that would last? At some point the power grid to our area would blow and we'd be cut off. Likewise for the communications.

I settled down on the living room sofa again and watched the news, trying to get some information on what the highways were like. The newscaster that had been broadcasting over South-Central Los Angeles via helicopter earlier, was now hovering somewhere over San Bernardino reporting on the carnage farther inland. Interstate 10 looked like a long narrow parking lot, both east and west-bound lanes. Surface streets appeared somewhat better. Most cars appeared to have crashed as their drivers were reduced to the primitive state instantly. The dead lay behind the steering wheels of their vehicles. Other vehicles were empty, probably from those that were able to escape serious injury. The primitives roamed the streets like zombies.

I checked my watch. It was now twelve-thirty p.m. And things were spiraling downward fast.

At some point Tracy made me call the school. I did and got a busy signal.

Tracy began crying again. "Eric!"

I could only sit beside her on the sofa. For the first time in our relationship I didn't know how to comfort her. Everything I thought of saying would sound hollow, false. Things like, everything will be okay. Bullshit. Everything was not going to be okay. In fact, everything was going to get worse.

I did, however, encourage Tracy to go downstairs and lie down with Emily, and she finally did. I helped her downstairs, got her in bed where she promptly cuddled our daughter close to her and let out more heart-wrenching sobs. I sat in the darkness of the bedroom, fighting the sadness that wanted to well out of me and waited until Tracy's sobs trickled down and she fell asleep.

I headed back upstairs, sat on the sofa, and watched the news. I sat there on the sofa with the Sig Sauer fully reloaded and reholstered. I'd grabbed three extra magazines and loaded them along with a brick of 9mm shells I kept stored in the garage. I had a case of 9mm and .45 caliber ammunition each and four bricks of .22 shells for the Ruger. I would need more, I was sure of it, but for now I had plenty.

I sat in front of the television for the rest of the afternoon and watched as civilization fell.

By three p.m. we had no government. No more Republicans or Democrats to bitch about. Anarchy had taken root in every major city. Those that weren't primitives were either rioting in the streets, or were hiding in homes or offices. In short order, everything started falling apart. Military and law enforcement presence and response dwindled to nothing. Order became total chaos. Television stations began going off the air one by one, first the locals, then the larger networks. Channel 5 in Los Angeles was the last hold-out and it finally went off at five that afternoon when a technician, who was filling in for one of the news anchors who'd turned primitive on camera and lumbered out of the building, suddenly turned around and screamed "Noooo!" and a flying thing leaped at him, pushing him off camera. I heard grunts and yells, then the picture toppled as the camera tipped over and the feed went dead.

I continued to check outside periodically through the blinds, as well as through the peephole in the front door. The man I'd killed still lay on our front walkway, but he was so out of view of the main street that nobody would've seen him if they'd strolled by. Looking at the dead man, a flare of guilt rose within me. Aside from insects and spiders, I'd never killed anything before. Never had to make the choice to put a beloved pet through euthanasia, never accidentally hit a cat, or a squirrel in the street. Despite the fact that I had no choice in the matter, that I had to defend my family and myself, I had just taken a human life. That crazed primitive that had tried to kill me had once been a civilized human being.

I heard a commotion in the neighborhoods below us that abruptly died off. I continued to hear gunfire, screeching tires, yelling and screaming that came from somewhere—East Pasadena, maybe? Looking out the windows, I could see the smoke from fires that now burned out of control in Pasadena and farther to the west in Burbank and downtown Los Angeles. I saw no cars come barreling down our street, did not see the man in the shorts again. As far as I knew we were the only house whose occupants were alive and normal.

At some point the hunger in my belly woke me up and I retreated to the kitchen where I made myself a cold beef sandwich. I ate it with water from the tap as my beverage. I then realized that the public water system would eventually grow contaminated, if it weren't already.

I was finishing my sandwich when I heard Tracy and Emily downstairs.

They were talking and I could tell Tracy was trying to explain to Emily that something very bad was happening. Emily sounded confused and scared and, judging by the tone of Tracy's voice, she sounded like she'd bounced back, regained her fighting spirit. I went downstairs, and when I entered our bedroom I saw them on the bed. Tracy was sitting up, cradling Emily in her arms. Tracy's gaze met mine and I saw right away that she was still emotionally wounded, still in shock from the news of Eric's death. I hoped she would be able to put that grief and hurt someplace else in order to deal with the task of surviving. We didn't just have ourselves to think about. We had our daughter to care for.

"How you guys doing?" I asked.

"We're okay," Tracy said.

"I'm hungry!" Emily said.

"Come on upstairs," I said. "I just had a sandwich. I'll make you guys some dinner."

"What time is it?" Tracy asked as she rose from the bed. She helped Emily up and they followed me up the stairs to the main portion of the house.

"Almost six."

Emily sat down at the kitchen table, looking small and frail in her nightgown. Tracy fell into the task of getting Emily something to drink—orange juice—while I went about the task of preparing another meal, this time for all three of us. I assembled milk, eggs, and sausage together and began making omelets while Tracy poured orange juice and brewed coffee. Emily sat at the table and flipped listlessly through a coloring book.

"I can't believe we slept that long," Tracy said at one point. Despite the fact that she was no longer a crying mess, she still looked shocked and wounded. No doubt she was operating on some kind of autopilot.

"You needed the sleep," I said.

Tracy opened her mouth to say something and stopped. I could tell she was going to say something about Eric again, and I could tell that she was still at a loss on what to do about the situation. I knew she was still grieving for him, that her maternal instinct insisted she head to the daycare center and get him, that part of her refused to believe he was dead until she saw him. Her bouncing back had to do with that internal conflict, that rational side that was overriding those instinctive emotions, telling herself that no, Eric was dead now, she couldn't do anything about it and she had to live for Emily.

We ate in silence. Emily and Tracy ate ravenously, and when they were finished Emily asked for some fruit. I gave her a fruit cup and Tracy helped me take the empty dishes to the sink.

"Can I watch a SpongeBob video?" Emily asked.

"Sure," Tracy said.

Once Emily was safely enthralled in the exploits of SpongeBob SquarePants, Tracy and I retreated back to the kitchen. "How bad has it gotten?" Tracy asked me.

I told her. I left out nothing, related everything I saw and heard on the news and from what I saw outside. Tracy listened silently, her features still bearing the incredible strain from this morning. When I was finished she turned away. For a minute I thought she was going to break down again. When she spoke her voice cracked. "How can this happen?"

"I don't know," I said. I felt helpless.

"This is just...so...wrong!" She turned to me and the tears were in her eyes again. "How can...how can everything just spiral out of control so quickly? And then to...to have it affect children! And Eric—"

"I know, honey," I said in my attempt to head her off at the pass of another breakdown. I reached out to touch her and felt stupid doing it.

"I just wish I could go somewhere and cry but I know I can't." Tracy looked at me and I could tell that she'd finally accepted the fact that Eric was really dead. "You know..." She looked away for a moment toward the refrigerator. "...when I first heard the news it felt like being hit with a ton of bricks. I couldn't believe it. I still can't believe it. And...I know I lost my mind for a while there...I didn't...I just let my emotions take over me and—"

"It's okay," I said, still trying to reassure her.

"Let me finish!" She paused, took a peek into the living room to check on Emily, and then continued. "Part of me won't feel...like letting go until I can have Eric back physically. Even if he is dead I need to...take care of him." Her eyes were haunted, begging me to understand her. "Do you understand?"

I nodded, feeling my throat hurt from the pain of our loss. "Yeah, I do."

"But...after seeing all this...I know that isn't going to happen. I've...intellectually accepted the fact that he's dead, that the conditions are not to our best advantage in getting him back to take care of him. And I know that I have to be strong for Emily. She's my only hope now. Do you know what I mean?"

I nodded. "Yeah, honey. I do."

We held each other for a moment, Tracy's face buried against my chest. "I swear if it wasn't for Emily I'd just give up right now."

"There's no need to—" I stopped talking, suddenly attuned to a rustle outside. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Tracy felt me stiffen and we both turned toward the sliding glass door off the living room.

The sounds were distinct. Two audible thumps, as if somebody had climbed over the little fence that bordered our back deck and dropped silently onto it. Two more, then another followed them. There was a voice, inaudible, but clearly coming from the back deck.

From farther away, another sound. Primal. Guttural. "Aaaaaoooowwwww!"

Hearing it sent tingles of fear down my back.

Now footsteps on the deck and hands began to pound on the sliding glass doors.

Three

I pulled the Sig Sauer from the holster and thumbed the safety off. I had the weapon pointed at the sliding glass door, finger on the trigger, when I heard a voice from the back deck. "Anybody in there! Hey! Is there anybody there?"

I froze. Tracy had gone to Emily, scooping her up in her arms. They were already retreating down the staircase to the bedrooms and I positioned myself in the center of the living room, assuming the classic firing stance.

Another voice, female, from outside. "Oh God, they see us!"

That primal voice, from down the hill. "Aaaaughaaaa! Meeeaaannnaaaggghhh!"

A third voice, another female. "Fuck!"

The hands started pounding the sliding glass door harder and the first voice—clearly a man—became more frightened. "If you're in there, please, we're normal, we—"

That broke my paralysis. I was across the room and unlocking the door in a flash. I flung the door open and got a quick look at the man. The first thing I noticed was his eyes, which were wide with fright. He almost jumped back a little at my sudden emergence. The second thing I noticed was he was a good ten years older than me, was Hispanic, about my height, but with the physique of a man who spent a good amount of time at the gym. Behind him were a slim African-American woman dressed in a ratty, dirty business suit, a pudgy Caucasian bearded guy who looked about my age, and a young teenage girl, probably sixteen, sporting bleached blonde hair and stylish, yet dirty punk attire. On first reflection she reminded me of the pop star Pink. All of them looked scared and I knew in that instant that they were normal and were being chased by primitives.

"They're coming up the hill behind us," the Hispanic man said as he shouldered his way past me. The others followed close behind him and I stepped out onto the balcony as another "Aaaarrroooo!" filled the air. Looking back on this event later, I realize that was a stupid thing to do—heading outside while complete strangers entered my house. Primitives could have already been along the side of the house, drawn by the howl from their brethren and they could have waylaid me.

As I stepped up to the edge of the back deck another "Aaarrrrooooo!" rose from the hills and I saw them clearly. There were six primitives and they were trudging up the shrubbery-infested hills toward my house and the neighborhood I lived in. How long they might have been chasing these people I have no idea, but it was obvious that trying to lose them in the San Gabriel hills hadn't deterred them. The primitives were a good fifty yards downhill and rapidly approaching. I didn't hesitate. I simply raised the gun, placed each one in my sights, and took them down one by one.

One shot took a primitive in the shoulder, sending him tumbling down the embankment. Two were taken in the chest, eliminating them from the equation forever. One was a headshot; the other took a bullet in the gut. I shot that last one a second time in the head at thirty yards away, then looked around for the other one, a primitive I'd shot in the arm. I could hear him screaming in pain, mumbling in that gibberish they spoke. "Goddammit," I muttered. I couldn't see the goddamn thing now. Had no idea how far down the hill it had fallen. Worse, I was afraid its yelling would attract others. I was right.

Answering howls of gibberish arose from down the hill in the neighborhoods below us. Some sounded like howls of glee. Yay, food! Others were sounds of annoyance, anger. I stood on the porch, still trying to get a look at the wounded primitive when the Hispanic man poked his head out the door. "You get them?"

"Yeah," I said. "But one of 'em's wounded. If I can just—"

"There's no time for that. Get inside!"

The sounds of the other primitives gathered in intensity. It sounded like a football stadium of them, all spread out in a wide radius, answering the call, which swelled and ebbed toward us. That was enough for me to retreat back into the house.

The sliding glass door was shut behind me and I heard the engaging of the lock. I reached toward the kitchen and extinguished the lights. I turned toward the Hispanic guy. "What's your name?"

"Martin Hernandez," the man said. The black woman was standing beside him, her features alert. The other two huddled near them, seemingly not wanting to stray from their circle of four. "And I think I can speak for the others here by saying we're damn glad to see you."

"David?" Tracy's voice, from downstairs. She sounded scared.

"It's okay," I called back down. I faced Martin and I must admit part of me wondered whether I should trust him and the other three. I still held the gun, barrel pointed toward the ceiling, and I had six shots left. The Kimber was now nuzzled in the holster at the small of my back and the Ruger was lying on top of the refrigerator, toward my left. I only had to take three steps to reach it. As far as I could tell, Martin and the other three didn't have weapons.

I met Martin's gaze with grim determination. "Any of you have weapons?"

The black woman looked annoyed by the question. "What the fuck kind of question is that?"

The teenage girl shook her head and the bearded guy, who'd looked relieved to reach not only safety but to find somebody who wasn't a primitive, said, "No, man, we don't have any weapons. Listen, we're cool, man, we're just trying to stay away from—"

Martin overrode him. "We're just trying to get out of the city away from these things." Martin's eyes held mine and I saw a level of determination.

"Get out of the city?"

From downstairs: "David?"

"It's okay," I called out. "Come on up."

And that was how Tracy and I met the group we would leave the Los Angeles basin with.

Four

Martin Hernandez suggested that we all head downstairs and remain quiet. I immediately picked up on his game plan and agreed. I made sure the sliding glass door was locked and that the lights upstairs were off, then I retrieved the Ruger and led the way downstairs. Tracy had turned on the nightlights we kept plugged in the downstairs hallway and bedroom sockets, and now in their glow we hastily introduced each other. Lori West was the thirty-something African-American woman. The pudgy bearded guy was James Goodman, and the girl was Heather Young.

Tracy accepted the foursome without hesitation. I was still wary, but Martin quickly put me at ease. He was direct and to the point. "How many other weapons do you have in the house?"

I told him, leaving out the various butcher knives in the kitchen. He nodded, his eyes wandering around the hallway. "Those things chased us all the way from Altadena Drive. We didn't..." For the first time Martin sounded like he was succumbing to the fatigue of the nearly two-mile escape through suburban Pasadena into the foothills of the San Gabriels.

"Those things are all over the place," Heather said. Her left nostril was pierced and she had multiple piercings in both ears.

"We made good distance in the car I was able to get, but the intersection of Allen and Franklin was completely blocked," Martin said. "Probably from when...whatever happened, happened and turned people into those things down there."

Very faintly we could hear the primitives raise their cry. I heard Emily whimper.

"I killed one of them outside," I said, giving them an abbreviated version of my encounter from this morning. Martin nodded. For the first time I noticed how sweaty and dirty he was. Hell, all of them were. It had been in the upper nineties that day, and running around outside being chased by those things hadn't helped them.

We eventually sat down in the hallway in a rough horseshoe shape, silent, listening for any sounds outside. The plaintive cries of the primitives carried throughout the valley and we listened to them. I felt my skin gooseflesh at their sound. It was hard to tell if others were trudging up the hill toward our house. Part of me was expecting it, and I was tense for the next half hour as we sat in the hallway and listened. I glanced quickly at Tracy and her gaze met mine. A silent understanding passed between us as she held Emily cradled in her lap. If push came to shove, it was the three of us against the four people we'd saved from certain death outside. It was survival instinct—our family against everybody else. On an intellectual level I knew it wouldn't come down to that today. Maybe later, but not now with these four. I had a good feeling about them, and the trauma of what happened was still too fresh in everybody's mind. Right now it was normal humans against the primitives and I think the seven of us understood that.

Still, I was tense as I listened for the telltale signs of footsteps clamoring on our deck, of hands slapping uselessly at the windows or the front door. None of that happened. In time the howling outside ceased. For a while we remained seated on the floor in the hallway. James finally broke the silence. "I think we're okay," he whispered.

We all nodded in agreement. Emily asked, "Mommy, what's happening?" Tracy whispered to Emily, what it was I don't know, and I looked at the other four one at a time.

When my gaze rested on Martin he nodded. "It's going to be dark soon," I said, my voice low. "We should keep the lights off."

"Is anybody hungry?" Tracy asked, ever the consummate hostess even when things were turning to shit.

"Yeah," Heather said. "I am."

"We have food," I said. I stood up slowly, my kneecaps popping. I picked up the Ruger, cradling it in my hands. I'd reholstered the Sig and I wanted to maintain control of my armaments for now. "Come on."

The others followed me slowly upstairs. Because it was still light outside we had good illumination in the upper level even with the drapes closed. I led the way to the kitchen and approached the sliding glass door tentatively. Martin joined me. We stood at the door, listening at first. Our eyes met. "I don't hear anything," I said, my voice low.

He nodded. I took a peek between the curtains, saw a glimpse of my deck and the shrubbery beyond it. Everything looked normal. Likewise, we heard no strange sounds.

Tracy still held Emily in her arms, who was clutching her mother in fear. "Let me check the front of the house," I said, as I moved past them to the entryway.

Once I was assured there were no primitives in the vicinity of the house, we gathered in the kitchen/dining area. Tracy was trying to get Emily to sit down in her booster seat at the table. Emily was having none of it. She clutched Tracy's neck as she sat her down. "Come on honey, it's okay."

Lori knelt beside Emily. "Hey sweetie, it's okay. My name's Lori!"

"Can you say hi to Lori, honey?" Tracy asked Emily as she pried the little girl's fingers from around her neck.

As Lori and Tracy worked at breaking the ice with Emily, I retreated to the main area of the kitchen with Martin, James, and Heather. I opened the refrigerator. "There's leftover hamburger patties and hotdogs from a barbecue we had two days ago," I said, pointing everything out. "Buns and rolls are over there. There's frozen stuff in the freezer, and there's eggs and sausage. Help yourself."

"Thanks," James said. He and Heather dug in. A moment later the microwave was reheating hamburger patties and hotdogs.

I asked Lori if she wanted anything. "Whatever that is you're heating up sounds good to me. I'm starving."

I retrieved bottled water for them and by the time the meat was reheated, the buns and condiments were out. I retrieved some fresh fruit—apples, bananas, and pears—along with fresh lettuce. I retreated back to the table with my family while our four guests prepared their food. I glanced at Tracy, who was sitting next to Emily. Our daughter seemed to have come out of her shell a little. I brushed Emily's hair back from her face. "We're okay, pumpkin. These people are friendly."

Emily nodded, and I think the fact that Tracy and I had let down our guard around these people, that we weren't displaying any overt signs of fear, had a positive effect on her. Lori West's friendly overtures also helped tip the scale.

One by one our guests took their meals to the table. Only James remained standing at the kitchen counter, munching on a hamburger greedily. As they ate, Tracy and I got their story out of them in bits and pieces.

They'd thrown themselves together one person at a time. Martin Hernandez had spent most of the day holed up in the condominium he'd shared with his life partner, who'd left for work at his usual time that morning. Martin was an executive at a financial firm in downtown Los Angeles and had moved to the area from Phoenix, Arizona three years ago after meeting his partner, Jerry Horn, at a conference. "I had a late morning meeting," he said. "I'd just finished my morning workout and was brewing coffee when I turned on the news and saw everything go down. I tried calling Jerry on his cell and it rang straight into voice mail. He was probably still on his morning commute and I panicked. I couldn't get through to anybody at his firm, and I spent the next four hours trying to get a hold of him, praying that he was all right and trying to...keep my head down because of what I was hearing going on at my complex." I could only imagine. I wondered if Martin was the only person in his complex who was unaffected. I wondered if his partner, Jerry, had turned even while he was driving himself to work.

Everybody else's story was similar. Lori West was just pulling her car up to the building she worked at—on Lake Avenue in Pasadena—when a naked man ran in front of her. She was so surprised she crashed her vehicle into the car in front of her. "The person in that car seemed to turn in that instant," Lori related. "It was a woman, and she got out of the car and yelled at the naked guy. She...I don't know how to say this, so fuck it...she got down on her hands and knees right there in the street and assumed the position. She was like a bitch in heat and he jumped right on her, somehow tore her skirt off and they started going at it right there."

Lori was able to pull away and drove around the block when a trio of men in torn business suits swarmed around her car. "They were snarling," she said, pausing in her meal to reflect on how her version of hell had gone. "I just reacted instinctively, put my foot on the gas and ran them down!"

By then the local news was reporting on what was happening and Lori could only pull over and listen in stunned disbelief. "I was near the back entrance to my office building and watched as people streamed out. I recognized some of my co-workers. They were...some of them were bloody and dirty and they looked...they looked mad...like wild animals or something." Lori had stayed hunkered down in the front seat of her car while chaos erupted all around. She hadn't felt safe in her car, and at some point decided to head into the building. "I probably shouldn't have," she said. "But nobody had come out in over an hour so I took my chances. I made my way to my office and everything was just a mess. It looked like a hurricane had swept through. The place was deserted and my secretary, Barbara, was lying on the floor near her workstation with her throat ripped out. I closed the door to my office and tried to get an internet connection to see what was happening but I wasn't successful."

Once things calmed down somewhat outside she ventured out with a metal pipe she'd salvaged from inside the building. That's when she saw Martin's SUV weaving around stalled vehicles on Lake Street. "You don't know how big a relief it was to see Martin. A living, breathing, sane human being!"

James Goodman's story was similar to Martin's. He'd spent the morning at his house north of Walnut Street in Pasadena. His wife had just taken their son to school on her morning commute to the office. "I'm a history professor at Pasadena City College," he said. "And I didn't have anything scheduled until that afternoon. I spent most of the day riveted to the news and trying to get in touch with Carol, but—"

James would eventually venture outside in his Audi not to escape the city, but to find his son, Jacob. That's when he ran into Heather Young, almost literally.

"Those fucking things were chasing me," Heather said. She'd wolfed down a hamburger, two hotdogs, and was working on a makeshift salad. "I was watching everything on TV like you guys were when some of them came into my yard. My folks and my brother had gone to work. I grabbed one of my dad's guns and got one of them, but ran out of ammo. Two others started chasing me and that's when I ran into James."

"I stopped the car instantly," James continued. "I could tell she was normal and she just got into the backseat as I was pulling away."

"Those things chased you?" I asked.

James and Heather nodded. "Fuck yeah," Heather said.

James was driving his Audi so fast that when he tore out onto Lake Street he nearly collided with Martin and Lori, who'd just begun the journey toward the mountains. "We kind of threw in together at that point," Martin picked up the narrative. He leaned back in his chair, his meal polished off. "We noticed those things would come out when they heard us drive by, but having a vehicle helped put the distance between us."

It wasn't until they reached the blocked intersection that they were forced to abandon their vehicle and strike out on foot. "We found a car," Martin continued. "And Heather hotwired it. That took us to almost four blocks from here."

"What happened then?" Tracy asked.

By then the four of them agreed they had to get out of the city. James told them that there was a road that went over the San Gabriels into the valley on the other side. Once there they could hit one of the major highways that would take them out of the major metropolitan areas. "We've got to get out of here," Martin concluded. "That's the bottom line. There's not only going to be more of these things in major cities, but anybody like us that's unaffected...well... as society continues to fall—"

"Shit, society already goddamned fell," Lori huffed.

"It's going to get more crazy," I said, finishing Martin's train of thought. "There's no rules, no society, nothing to keep order."

Martin nodded. "Exactly!"

I didn't say it but I thought: not to mention the stink of decay that's eventually going to permeate the city like the goddamn smog. By my estimation, the primitives outnumbered the living and the dead by a great margin. Eventually as both normal people and primitives succumbed to violence, natural disease, or accidents, there was going to be a big problem when it came to the dead.

The foursome had made it halfway up the development we lived in when they were once again blocked due to a vehicle pile up. "We got out of the car and started hiking up the street," Martin said. "I figured we could snag another car since Heather proved to be so reliable in hotwiring them."

Heather offered a bemused grin and I grinned back at her.

"But then we heard that damn sound they make," Lori said. "And two of them were emerging from a house about fifty yards back. They came after us and we just started running."

More of them joined in the chase and the four dove into the shrubbery-infested hill, trying to lose them. That's when our paths crossed.

"Are there any stations on the air?" James asked as Lori and Tracy cleared the table. Emily stayed at her mother's side wherever she went.

"No," I said. "Last one went off not too long ago."

"So we have no idea what's going on elsewhere in the city," Lori said.

"Or even the world," James said.

"So now what do we do?" Tracy asked.

I gestured toward the windows and the sliding glass door, which were covered with drapes. The upstairs area was growing dark from the falling sun outside. As if on cue, those howlings from the primitives started again.

"What are those things?" Lori whispered. For the first time she looked afraid.

I heard Emily whimper, saw her bury her face in the hollow of Tracy's neck. We stood silently as more howls rose from outside. Most of them sounded far away enough but others sounded close, perhaps coming from a few blocks away.

"I wish I knew," I said.

That's when we heard the rustling sounds, first coming from far away, and then becoming clearer. I could feel the air grow tense as the sounds grew louder.

And there was something else I felt, too. Something I didn't know how to describe at the time.

"Get back downstairs," I said, urging Tracy toward the stairway. Martin darted toward the kitchen and grabbed the Ruger from where I'd left it on top of the refrigerator. The sounds grew louder and I recognized them now for what they were.

Footsteps. Running toward us.

* * *

We made it downstairs and huddled on the floor in the hallway once again, listening as the primitives roamed outside, hooting and howling in those strange voices.

We listened in silence as footfalls from perhaps a dozen primitives roamed around the house. It sounded like they were moving past our house, headed elsewhere. Why our house happened to be in their path was just our dumb luck, I guess.

I could hear the primitives make their way around both sides of the house. Some of them stepped onto the deck and headed around the side path toward the front of the house and continued on. Others stopped near the front, probably pausing to take interest in the dead primitive I'd killed outside. I could hear startled grunts and hoots and a very brief flurry erupted—it sounded like a fight by our front door—and eventually subsided. Emily's face was pressed into her mother's breast, both hands clamped over her ears, her eyes squeezed shut. I wanted to do nothing else but envelop Tracy and Emily in a protective shield away from this nightmare, but I knew I couldn't. For the first time in my life I felt like a total failure for being unable to provide security and safety for my family.

Eventually the sounds faded. At one point James asked if he could use the bathroom. I pointed out the lone bathroom on the bottom floor and James made his way over to it, shutting the door behind him. He didn't flush the toilet when he was through. Okay by me. I think all of us were afraid on some subconscious level of making any noise.

At some point the foot-traffic around the house stopped.

We remained seated on the floor in the hallway for a while, talking quietly among ourselves. I think that was the first time we all began to relax since the nightmare began. Emily fell asleep in Tracy's lap as we talked, and Tracy retreated to Emily's room to put her to bed. When she returned she plopped herself back down on the floor next to me and took my hand.

"I've got to be honest with you, David," Martin said to me. He was leaning back against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. "I, for one, am so grateful and glad we met you. I don't know what we would have done without you."

Lori, James, and Heather murmured their thanks as well. James sighed and kept his face averted from the rest of us. He'd been silent and brooding ever since the foot traffic ceased. I guessed he was quietly mourning the deaths of his wife and son.

I checked my watch. It was only 8:35—still relatively early, but I felt beat. I nodded at Martin. "How are you doing?" I asked.

"Aside from the fact that the world has just ended and I probably won't see Jerry ever again, I'm doing okay."

I turned to Tracy. "How about you, honey?"

"I don't know." She leaned against me. I could tell she was still in mild shock from the events of this morning—losing Eric being the chief among them. "I don't think I can sleep, if that's what you mean. And I still can't get over losing Eric."

I quickly explained to the others what happened to us this morning regarding Eric. Lori was immediately consoling. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry," she told us. She was sitting on Tracy's right and gave her a hug.

"We should take shifts through the night," I said to Martin. "You, me, Lori, and Tracy. Each of us takes a two hour shift while the rest of us gets some sleep."

"I'm up for that," Martin said.

"What about me?" Heather asked.

"You were a big help today with hotwiring cars," I said. "And we can rotate as the days pass. I don't think James is going to be up to taking a shift tonight, and I wasn't sure about you."

All eyes went to James.

He was crying.

James looked at us. In the darkened hallway I could see tears streaming down his bearded face. "I'm sorry..." he said. "It's just..."

Lori scooted over to him. She put an arm around James's shoulders. "I know, baby. You go on and cry now. Go on."

James settled against Lori and cried. His sobs weren't loud. They weren't dramatic and braying, but they were heart wrenching. We could only sit there in silence, feeling our own respective losses and grief well to the surface. Martin remained stoic. He sighed and drew his knees up, bowing his head against his knees. Lori closed her eyes while she held James and I think she, too, was crying over whatever loved ones she had lost. All of us had loved ones we either knew were lost forever to the sudden spate of violence, or had no way of knowing their fates—were they primitives or were they somewhere else cowering in fear like us? Tracy leaned closer to me and I held her, feeling a sting at the back of my throat over our own joint loss. At least we knew Eric was dead. There were still our parents and siblings to think about. I had a sister in Orange County who lived with her husband and two young children. I had no way of knowing if they were alive or dead or had turned primitive. Most of Tracy's family harkened from the Midwest. Only Heather seemed to not let her emotions get the best of her. She sat on the floor, somewhat away from the rest of us, looking up at the ceiling. I couldn't tell if she was contemplating anything or if she was pissed off.

At one point I got up to check on Emily. Tracy followed me to Emily's room. We stood over our daughter's bed and watched her sleep. Emily had plopped one of her pacifiers in her mouth and every once in awhile she would suck on it, deep in sleep.

"I don't want anything to happen to her," Tracy whispered.

"I don't either." I drew Tracy close to me. "I need to talk to you."

Tracy nodded. I think she knew this conversation was about us, about maintaining our family unit against all odds. "Are you okay with handling one of the guns?"

Tracy nodded. For the first time I saw a hint of strength in her features. "You better believe it."

"Okay." I felt better now. Despite Tracy's previous misgivings of having loaded firearms in the house, the few times we went to a target range together she proved to be very adept at them and was practically a crack shot. "I have a good feeling about Martin and Lori. What about you?"

"I feel good about them, too," Tracy said.

"You okay with having one of them take a shift with one of the guns?"

"As long as they know how to use it."

"Good. Me, too." I paused for a moment. For the first time since the day began, I suddenly felt exhausted. "James seems okay, but he's definitely not in the right frame of mind to watch our backs. And Heather seems okay, but I don't have that good a read on her yet. Maybe it's because she's a kid. She still has that teenage rebellion thing going."

"I think you're right," Tracy said. "Let's get a chance to know her a little better."

"Despite whoever stands guard, one of us always has one of these." I tapped the holster enclosed Sig near my waist. "Whoever's on guard can have the rifle."

"Okay."

After an awkward pause, we hugged. It was the first time we'd been able to genuinely hold each other since the awful events of this morning. Tracy trembled in my embrace. "I just wish this could all be over," she whispered against my neck.

"Me too, hon."

We remained that way for a moment, taking solace in each other, then looked down at our sleeping Emily. When we rejoined the group back in the hallway, James had gotten control of himself and was sniffing back tears. Martin was looking at me.

"You ever shot a rifle before?" I asked Martin.

"I served in the Marines thirty years ago," Martin answered, proving my age estimation of him correct. "It'll come back to me."

I turned to Lori. "What about you?"

"I've never shot a rifle, but I've shot a 9 millimeter before on a firing range."

"Would you feel comfortable taking one of the shifts?"

Heather perked up, raised her hand. "I can do it."

"Hold on a minute," I said to Heather, then directed my attention back to Lori. "No problem if you aren't comfortable. Just be honest."

"Show me what to do and I can do it." The determination in Lori's voice and her body language, her facial expression, told me she was a go-getter. This was a woman who wouldn't take shit from anybody, either, and I had a feeling she was a fast learner. I motioned her to come over to me and she got up.

"You okay to take the first shift?" I asked Lori. "Say from now until midnight?"

"Sure."

"It'll mean staying upstairs in the living room. Keep the lights off. If you hear anything outside, be ready to use this." I held up the Ruger. "And definitely use it if somebody tries breaking in. I don't care if they're normal like us." If I wasn't so damned tired I'd take the first shift, but today's events had really worn me down. Besides, all I needed was a few hours sleep and I'd be fine.

"What about us?" James asked.

"We need to get some sleep," I said. It felt good to take charge, to take control of my house and ensure my family's safety. I felt I could trust Lori and Martin in maintaining this sense of control, too. "Tracy and I will bunk down with our daughter in her room. One of you can take the master bedroom and there's a sofa in the office." I didn't want to offer the use of Eric's room so soon after his death. In fact, the door to his room was closed. Tracy probably. "I can get extra pillows and blankets for whoever sleeps on the floor." I pointed out each room, and then turned to Tracy. "You want the midnight to two shift?"

"Yeah." Tracy nodded.

I glanced at Martin. "How does two to four sound to you?"

"Fine with me."

I turned to James and Heather. "We all need some sleep. Let's get some rest and in the morning hopefully we'll be rested enough to come up with some kind of battle plan for getting out of here."

"I don't mind staying up to stand watch," Heather volunteered again.

"I appreciate it," I told her. "But we have it covered tonight. Maybe tomorrow."

I don't know if Heather intended to protest the matter further, but for me the case was closed. I gestured to Lori. "Let's go upstairs."

When we reached the upper level of the house I led Lori over to my makeshift office. I showed her where I'd stashed the brick of .22 ammunition for the rifle. I also showed her where I'd stashed several loaded magazines. Each magazine held thirty rounds. "Tracy will show Martin where these are when he takes his turn. The location for the ammunition stays between the four of us. Okay?"

Lori nodded. "Gotcha."

Despite the drawn curtains, there was enough moonlight to provide illumination to see by. I sat down on the living room sofa and showed Lori the basic mechanisms of the rifle; how to open the breech, how to insert and remove the magazine, how to chamber a round, how to fire it, where the safety was. "This is a semi-automatic rifle," I concluded. "Keep that in mind when you fire this thing. It's not a high caliber weapon so you'll only feel a slight kick to your shoulder as you fire it, and it won't be that loud."

"I saw that handgun you got tucked under your shirt," Lori said. "What else you got?"

"One other handgun," I said. "Tracy and I will be in possession of them."

Lori nodded, her gaze not leaving my face. "If I had a little one as adorable as your Emily I'd be armed to the teeth at all times, too."

I smiled at her. "You'll be okay here. Wish I could say enjoy a movie or something, but I don't think that'll be safe."

"I'll be fine. I've got too much on my mind to keep me bored."

"Okay." I handed Lori the rifle. She checked it, made sure the safety was on, and then rested it gently against the sofa.

"Tracy and I will be in Emily's room," I said. "You need anything, don't hesitate to roust us up."

"You can count on it."

I left Lori in my living room and headed back downstairs. The hallway was empty and as I passed Tracy's office on my right, I saw Martin lying on the sofa and James lying on the floor. I went to Emily's room, noting the door to our bedroom was closed—maybe Heather was finally succumbing to the emotions of the loss of her family. The door to Emily's room had been left open and I entered and sat down on the edge of the bed. I removed the holster from around my waist as Tracy sat up. I passed the .45 to her and she placed it on the floor on her side of the bed. I slipped the Sig out of the holster and placed it on the floor between the nightstand and the bed. Well within easy reach.

As I settled down on the bed I tried to sleep. My body screamed for it, but my mind was a whirlwind. Emily was deep in slumber while Tracy sniffed and shifted position on the far end. The nightlights we'd placed in the hallway were still on, telling me the power was operational in our section of town. Who knew how long we'd still have juice? For that matter, what could happen tomorrow?

At some point I fell asleep.

* * *

I was awakened shortly after midnight when Lori came down to get Tracy. She was a dark silhouette and her voice, while whispery, bore the strains of fatigue.

"How is everything?" I asked as Tracy got up.

"So far, so good," Lori answered.

Lori had brought the rifle downstairs with her and she handed it to Tracy, like a runner passing the baton. Tracy bent down quickly and retrieved the .45 on the floor at her side of the bed and stuffed it in the front pocket of her sweat pants. Then, with rifle in hand, she left the room. As Tracy left I asked her, "You okay, honey?"

Tracy paused at the doorway. "I'll be fine. I couldn't sleep anyway. I got maybe an hour."

"Okay. You feel like you're going to fall asleep, come down and get me."

"I'll be okay." She turned to Lori. "You're welcome to crash in here, Lori."

I got up off the bed. "Yeah. Go ahead, crash here. I can sleep on the floor."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Lori said. She slid into the side of the bed Tracy had occupied and turned on her right side so her back was facing me. Emily slept on, undisturbed by the whole thing.

I looked at Tracy. "Get me if you need me."

"I will," Tracy said.

She went upstairs. This time when I lay back down, sleep claimed me quickly.

* * *

I was jostled awake in a flurry. I snapped upright, blinking, taking everything in. "What? What's wrong?"

Emily was sitting up in bed crying and now I could hear it. How I didn't hear it before, I have no idea. While normally I sleep deep, Emily's crying was clearly audible. Out of the corner of my eye I could see somebody moving in Tracy's office—either James or Martin, I couldn't tell which. Lori was kneeling beside me. It was she who'd woken me.

"They're outside," Lori said.

I instinctively pulled Emily close to me. "It's okay, honey. Daddy has you."

"I'm scared!" Emily cried. Her face felt hot against my chest.

"Shhh...just quiet down, they don't know we're in here."

"I'm scared!" This time it was a frightened shriek. The shrillness in her voice took me aback.

"We're okay, honey, they can't get us in here."

"I'm scaaarrreedd!"

Emily's voice rose to a screaming crescendo and I could tell it was only going to get worse. Tracy called down from the top of the stairs. "Is everything okay down there?"

From outside I heard something worse. The voices of the primitives changed. While they still spoke that gibberish there was a quality in the tone of their voices that suggested they'd heard Emily's last scream. I heard their shuffling footsteps pause outside—it sounded like they were standing directly over Emily's bedroom, which would put them at the west side of the house. Several inquisitive hoots came from outside.

"Daddy I'm scared!" Emily wailed.

"Mmmaaaaahhhhh!" Eager hands slapped against the west window that looked out from my office, which was directly over Emily's bedroom.

"Oh damn!" Lori muttered.

"Daddddyyyyyy!" Emily wailed again. She was clinging to me so hard, I could feel her fear pouring through her little body.

"Emily, be quiet!" I said and instinctively clamped my right hand over her mouth.

"Dadddyyyy!" This last wail was muffled but still audible, though not as loud as before. The damage was already done, though. Footsteps began pounding toward the office window upstairs and the primitives began beating against it, their muffled voices resounding outside. They knew we were in here now.

"Will you shut her the fuck up!" Heather had exited the master bedroom and was standing out in the hall. "Those things are outside!"

I snapped at her. I don't remember what it was. Something like, "Get out of my face" or "Fuck off."

Emily squirmed violently in my grip. She continued shrieking behind my hand, which covered her mouth. If I hadn't had my hand over her mouth to muffle her voice she'd be screaming at the top of her lungs. "Emily, calm down, it's okay," I said, and I was dimly aware of somebody heading up the stairs to the living room and for a minute everything became a blur as Emily grew more agitated.

Lori and I were telling Emily to calm down, that things were okay. The primitives were outside running around, grunting and growling and pounding against the windows, the walls. I thought I could hear them pounding at the sliding glass door. Before I knew it Tracy was at my side, trying to take care of the situation. "Emily, Mommy's here, it's okay—"

Tracy basically swooped in. I removed my hand from Emily's mouth and she got the barest hint of a scream out before Tracy turned to Lori. "In the medicine cabinet is a bottle of Valium. If I can cut a quarter off it I can give that to her to calm her down."

Lori was up and across the hall to the bathroom instantly. I could hear somebody upstairs chamber a round in the rifle. Tracy's eyes met mine briefly. "Martin's upstairs," she said.

I nodded, the adrenaline running strong in my system.

"Is there a knife in here?" Lori called out.

"Shit," Tracy muttered. "Upstairs!"

Lori ran upstairs. Out in the hall I heard Heather mutter, "Fuck, they're all over the goddamn place. They're gonna fucking get in!"

Emily squirmed and fought against us. She was absolutely terror-stricken. Despite the fact that her screams were being muffled by Tracy's hand, they were still clearly audible. The pounding against the windows continued as the primitives grew bolder. I heard a tinkling of breaking glass amid excited grunts, heard Martin say, "Shit!", heard Heather outside Emily's room, "Goddammit, why can't you shut her the fuck up?" and then there was another sudden flurry of footsteps heading back down the stairs as Lori swept into the room. "Here!" she said, thrusting a hand out to me. She palmed a portion of the Valium into my hand as Tracy began speaking to Emily again. "We have some medicine we want you to take honey," she began just as there was another tinkling of breaking glass from upstairs and I heard the first blasts of gunfire.

"Here!" I thrust the Valium at Tracy who took it as I grabbed the Sig Sauer from the floor. I was up the stairs in a flash, brushing past James who was standing in the hallway, looking confused about what to do.

When I got upstairs the first thing I saw was Martin standing in the center of the living room aiming the rifle toward my corner makeshift office, the stock resting firmly against his right shoulder. Most of the activity from the primitives was at the window in that corner of the house, but I could hear more activity at the front door as well as the rear window, on the back deck of the house. I saw a flurry of movement at the window as the light was suddenly cut off—something was forcing its way through. Martin and I reacted in unison, aiming our weapons at the window and squeezing off three rounds each. Whatever it was that was trying to climb into my house was stopped cold. It hung there, half inside. What sounded like two primitives tried squeezing past the dead one stuck in the window. They grunted in frustration at their seeming inability to get past it. Meanwhile, the primitives at the other window were beginning to climb inside, and Martin and I opened fire at those targets. There was a squeal of pain as one primitive dropped to the ground outside. One was killed outright and his body was pulled out of the window. I was tracking both our weak spots now, my senses keenly attuned to every point of entry, and I could barely hear what was going on downstairs, only aware of Tracy's voice yelling something in anger and suddenly another primitive was through the window and in the office so fast that if Martin or I had hesitated it would have been on us as swift as a lion. Luckily our adrenaline was so spiked up that we blasted the shit out of it. It collapsed on the floor, just past my makeshift office. Another primitive was making its way through the window and Martin took it down with another staccato of gunfire while I plugged another one that had managed to pull the dead primitive from the living room window and was trying to climb into the house.

For a moment after that initial onslaught, there was no sound except for the wailing of the wounded primitive outside the side window. There was a loud ringing in my ears from the Sig Sauer and that made it difficult to tell if there were more primitives heading toward our refuge in the hills. There were certainly no footsteps on the deck, and the primitive that had been at the front door could now be heard at the side of the house, just out of range. I heard it hoot in fear, and then it turned and began running away from the house, heading into the neighborhood.

I stepped toward the sliding glass door. "Keep the windows covered," I told Martin as I sneaked a quick peek through the blinds outside.

The back deck appeared deserted. While my ears still rang, I didn't detect any sounds from the city below us, or any footsteps. The primitives weren't smart or stealthy. I moved into the kitchen and crouched beneath the window that overlooked the east side of the house. No sounds from there, either.

From the living room I heard another burst of gunfire followed by Martin's voice. "Die you fucking sonofabitch!"

I paused in the kitchen. The whining of the wounded primitive had ceased.

I stepped out of the kitchen and met Martin, who was standing over the body of the dead primitive. I couldn't tell if it was male or female. For the first time I was aware that I was down to only three rounds and that I'd stupidly left the spare magazines for the handgun downstairs. "You okay on ammo?"

Martin nodded. "Yeah."

"Be right back," I said. I darted downstairs.

I shouldered my way past James Goodman, who was standing in the doorway to Emily's room. Lori and Tracy were on the bed, Emily positioned between them. Tracy looked stressed as she held a sobbing Emily. Lori was holding Emily's hands, talking to her in a soothing voice. I knelt down to where I'd stashed the spare magazines and shoved them in my jeans pockets. "How is she?" I asked.

"I got some Valium in her," Tracy said. Her eyes met mine again and the message was clear. We need to talk. I nodded, and then darted out of the room again. I could barely make out Heather in our room pacing around, muttering in an angry tone as I headed up the stairs. I could have sworn I heard her say "wetback motherfucker" but I didn't have time to question her on it.

I met Martin upstairs just as he was returning from the front door. "Looks like we're clear," he said.

"You sure?"

"There's no movement in the front and no primitives anywhere within the perimeter of the house. And take a listen." He gestured toward the broken window that looked out over the backyard.

He led me past the dead primitive on my living room floor, where we paused on either side of the window. He looked at me, gesturing out over the San Gabriel valley below. "Hear that?"

My hearing was temporarily diminished from the gunfire, but I could still hear what Martin was getting at. From the city below rose a mixture of sounds from a dying civilization. Fire alarms brayed, sirens warbled, car alarms honked. All these sounds were scattered across the Los Angeles and San Gabriel valley but they created an uneasy cacophony, mixing together in a soup that spelled out the recipe for the end of civilization. Amid those sounds were others—the occasional hoot of a primitive from blocks, maybe miles away, shouts that were obviously normal humans calling out to each other or engaging in battle with primitives, occasional gunfire. I took a peek outside and saw flickers of orange in the distance. Fires.

"It's still going on," I said.

"Yeah," Martin said.

We stayed by the window for a while and I was pretty certain we were safe. I motioned toward the dead primitive. "Let's get this one out of here," I said.

I shoved my gun in the front pocket of my jeans and we approached the dead primitive. As we hunkered down over it I saw it was a Caucasian female in her twenties. At one time she'd been pretty, with short auburn hair and high cheekbones. She'd been dressed in a business suit and slacks that hung on her tattered frame. Now she was a mess. She smelled of dirt, sweat, blood and shit. I grabbed her arms, Martin took her legs at the ankles and we carried her out onto the back deck.

Once back inside behind locked doors I said, "We'll take care of removing the other dead ones in the morning."

"Unless we leave first thing," Martin said.

"Yeah." I sighed. Leaving the area was now forefront on my mind.

"Is your little girl okay?" Martin asked.

"I think so." I headed toward the stairs. "Be right back."

"Take your time. It's my shift anyway."

I made my way downstairs. James was still standing in the hallway, looking lost and confused. I moved past him to Emily's bedroom.

Tracy was rocking Emily in her arms. Lori was sitting beside her on the bed. Both women looked up at me as I entered the room. "Everything okay?" I whispered.

"She's asleep," Tracy said, looking down at Emily. She smoothed Emily's hair back from her forehead lovingly.

"Good." I sat down on the edge of the bed. I gave them a quick update on the situation upstairs and assured them that the primitives that had been attracted to Emily's screams were now dead and the ruckus hadn't attracted others. "We're safe now."

From the master bedroom across the hall I heard Heather mutter something inaudible. Tracy's face darkened in annoyance. She laid Emily down on the bed gently and then got up and strode to the doorway. "Heather, I'd like a word with you."

"What?" Sure enough, Heather sounded like the rebellious teenager she'd probably been before the world turned to hell.

"I understand you were probably frightened by what just happened, but I never want to hear you speak that way about my daughter again! Do you understand me?"

Curious, I glanced at Lori, who looked troubled. I looked back at the doorway to where Tracy stood waiting for a reply. "Do you hear me?"

"Yeah, I heard you," Heather said.

"And?"

"Fine. Whatever."

"Thank you."

Tracy came back into the room and scooted back on the bed beside Emily. "What was that all about?" I asked. We were talking in low tones.

"When you were upstairs," Tracy said, "and Lori and I were trying to get Emily calmed down, she was ranting and raving about shutting Emily up."

"I heard that," I said. "She was probably stressed out—"

"She told me to shut my half-breed mongoloid daughter up or she'd do it for me," Tracy stated. She had that angry look on her face that I knew there was no compromising with. When Tracy has that look, that tone of voice, you have passed the point of no return with her. "We'd just gotten the Valium into her and Lori was trying to get Emily to drink it down with some water. If I hadn't been holding Emily down I would've stormed across the hall and slapped that little bitch myself."

I didn't know how to react or what to say. At the time I thought the blow-up had been the result of the harrowing situation we'd just experienced. As human beings we tend to behave in a less than exemplary fashion when our backs are against the wall during extreme situations. Surely Heather's behavior was in reaction to what had happened. Emily was hysterical and making noise that was drawing attention to us, that would put us in danger. The primitives were trying to get in the house. Heather telling us to shut Emily up, calling her a derogatory name in doing so, was done out of stress, not malice. It was akin to telling us to "shut that brat up" or "shut that little shit up", only with more colorful language.

"I know what you're thinking and you're wrong," Lori said. There was something in Lori's face that told me Heather had passed the point of no return with her, too. "That girl meant what she said."

"Okay," I said. I took a deep breath. Lori and Tracy were sisters united in a cause now. It was them against Heather. The nurturers against the rebellious punk who disdained all traditional feminine roles. I hoped Heather hadn't meant anything she'd said, that calling my daughter a half-breed mongoloid wasn't intended, that it was uttered in a state of fear and extreme stress, but I wasn't going to voice that now. The last thing I needed at that moment was another fight. "Let's deal with it tomorrow, okay?"

That seemed to be the end of the subject, at least for that evening. As Tracy settled back on the bed, she asked me, "How are you doing?"

"Okay," I said. "And not in the least bit tired."

"Would you mind staying down here," she asked. "Maybe park yourself in the hallway at the staircase or in my office?"

"Sure." I wondered if she and Lori were worried that Heather might strike back at them out of some sort of revenge and quickly dismissed the thought. I scooted over to Emily and planted a kiss on her forehead. "I'm going upstairs to check on Martin and then I'll be either out in the hall or the office."

"Okay."

Lori settled down on the other side of the bed and I exited the room and headed upstairs.

Five

Martin was sitting on the sofa, the rifle cradled in his hands. "Everything okay?"

I quickly checked the back deck and the shattered window. The sounds of the city drifted inside, along with the smell of smoke from the fires that were now burning in the city. We'd definitely have to leave as soon as possible, especially if the fires made their way north into the hills where we lived. The dry brush of the San Gabriel Mountains was ripe fuel for a massive fire.

Once I was satisfied the house was secure, I sat down on the other side of the sofa and told Martin what had happened downstairs while we'd been upstairs battling the primitives. Martin listened quietly, his pensive features turning into a frown of concern. For a moment after I was finished he said nothing. He appeared to be thinking about what I'd just said. Finally he said, "Heather's been the only one who's been hard for me to get a read on."

"What do you mean?" I asked. We were speaking in low tones and I deliberately kept my voice down to as low a whisper as possible to avoid our voices drifting downstairs.

"What do you think of Heather?" Martin asked.

I shrugged. "I think she's a typical teenager who's adjusting very badly to what's happening."

"I thought that about her too when we originally ran into her," Martin said. He leaned forward. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "When we came upon her she seemed...hostile...as if she regretted seeing Lori and me."

"What do you mean?"

Martin paused. "Are you Hispanic? Or Native American?"

Good guess. He obviously noted the high cheekbones, the color of my skin, combined with my straight black hair, which I wore at waist-length and was currently tied back in a ponytail. "I'm a rarity in the world of Native Americans. Full-blooded Apache."

"Then you've obviously experienced what I can only describe as 'the look'?"

I picked up on what he was saying immediately. I wasn't raised on a reservation by any means, but my parents had relatives who still lived on one, in Arizona. And aside from a brief flirtation with engaging in tribal rituals and ceremonies and dress as a teenager, my physical features were the only thing that told people I was Injun. Some of my more traditional family members referred to me by that derogatory term for selling out to the white man's world. I never sold out. I was proud of my heritage. But I had to live in modern society and pay my bills, just like everybody else. "You think Heather's...racist?"

Martin didn't answer me right away. He looked troubled as I thought back to what he meant. Growing up in a predominately white, suburban neighborhood, I'd had my share of run-ins with ignorant Caucasian punks. I was called a hippie, a redskin, a wetback, you name it. Most adults were no better. Ironically, I've never been discriminated against by publishers or film producers and production companies in the nearly twenty years I've been a professional writer, although I experienced some of it while working so-called "normal jobs." I did not get that vibe from Heather, and I wonder if Martin was just super sensitive to the issue of race.

"I don't know," he finally said. "I realize we've all been under a lot of stress today, that because of the horrors we've all been witness to, we've reacted to them in ways we might normally not." He looked at me. "Still, I know what I felt. When you're Hispanic and gay, you become especially sensitive to the vibes people throw out when they first come across you. I definitely felt it with Heather. It was really strong when we first came across her and it's subsided substantially since then, so I can't tell if what I'm feeling is just my over-reacting to her clothing or appearance. I've never had a run-in with what we call racist skinheads, or Aryan Nations or whatever they call themselves, but I've seen enough about them on documentaries to know they're still racists. And I realize that it isn't fair to judge her by her clothing or the way she wears her hair, but her appearance, combined with her body language...that feeling...that vibe I got...that's the first thing I thought of."

"That she's a racist skinhead?

He nodded.

"I just had the impression she's a typical teen. She was home when everything started going down and yesterday was a school day. She was probably ditching school."

"She had easy access to firearms in her house," Martin added.

"Yeah." For some reason that was troubling.

"She sure has a knack for hotwiring cars, too," Martin said.

We regarded each other in the dark living room. I could tell Martin wanted to be wary around Heather and I was okay with that. I didn't completely trust her yet, either.

"I agree we need to get out of the city." I stood up. "Let's talk about it first thing tomorrow."

"You got it."

"I'm gonna go downstairs. I don't think I can sleep after what Tracy told me about Heather, but come check on me at five."

"I will." Martin settled back on the sofa with my rifle and I headed downstairs.

The hallway was quiet. I stood there, trying to listen for any sounds from behind the closed master bedroom door. I didn't hear anything, and wondered if Heather had finally calmed down and gone to sleep. I hoped so. I could make out vague lumps on Emily's bed and I took a peek in Tracy's office. James was lying on the sofa, his back to the doorway. I heard his breathing, slow and steady. He was fast asleep.

I found a spot on the floor near the wall, just inside the door to Tracy's office. I checked to make sure the safety was flicked on the Sig and slapped a full magazine in. I placed the handgun just inside the closet, within easy reach, and sat down with my back against the wall.

And I listened.

I could hear soft snores coming from Emily's bedroom—Tracy's and Emily's snores were easy to identify. I thought I could make out the sounds of Lori sleeping.

But from the other bedroom, where Heather was camping out, I heard nothing.

Was she even asleep in there?

That made me nervous.

* * *

I must've fallen into a deep sleep because the next thing I knew Martin was shaking me awake. "It's five o'clock," he whispered.

I got up, grabbed my Sig. I couldn't believe I'd let myself fall asleep like that. For a moment I felt a brief burst of panic. "Everything okay?"

He nodded, handed the Ruger to me. We traded places without further comment.

I sat down in the living room and listened to the dying city outside. I thought about all that was lost, our sense of civilization and order. Most of all I thought of Eric, who I'd raised since he was an infant. Tracy's words from yesterday morning came to me and even though I knew they were hastily uttered in response to her own roiling emotions over that horrible day, they still stung. You never loved Eric because of his condition. That was so untrue and I cried silently to myself, mourning the only son I'd ever had and our fractured family that was now forever scarred by his absence.

At some point I must've dozed. The next thing I was aware of was voices downstairs. I snapped awake, noting the time on the battery-operated clock—7:45. The morning was bright, albeit smoky with thick bands of black gunk from the fires that were burning. The smell of smoke was definitely stronger now. I got up and walked over to the window, stepping around the large puddle of blood on the living room carpet from the primitive Martin and I had killed. Sure enough, the entire San Gabriel Valley was enveloped in light brown smoke and I could see half a dozen darker plumes rising here and there amid flickers of flames. I could taste the smoke in the back of my throat. It was going to be unbearable by noon. Amid the still clanging sirens and fire alarms I could hear scattered shouts in the city below. It was hard to tell if they were from primitives or normal people.

Tracy, Emily, and Lori entered the living room. Emily was still wearing her nightgown from the previous evening. I hunkered down on my knees and smiled. "Hey Emily, come here." I held my arms out wide.

Emily ran to me and I swooped her up in a hug. I kissed her. "How'd you sleep, pumpkin?"

"Okay." Emily certainly looked better today. She turned to Tracy and Lori, who were standing next to me. "Lori told me a really good story!"

"Better than the ones I tell you?" I asked, mocking a sad face.

Emily giggled. "You always have the best stories, Daddy!"

I tickled her and Emily giggled some more.

Martin and James entered the room. Both of them looked refreshed.

"Anybody hungry?" Tracy asked.

"Where's Heather?" I asked.

"I think she's still asleep," Lori said.

"Let's let her sleep then."

Tracy headed to the kitchen and checked the gas on the stove. The utilities were still working. She glanced over at me. "Think it's okay to use the stove?"

"I don't see why not," Martin said.

"How about some eggs and sausage, then?"

That sounded fine with us. I put Emily down, got her some coloring books and crayons and sat her in her booster seat where she quickly began amusing herself. Lori sat with her and that freed me up to prepare a pot of coffee. Within minutes the aroma of brewing coffee, sizzling sausage, and scrambled eggs competed with the smell of the smoke that was creeping in through the shattered windows. I poured fresh orange juice for seven and soon we were at the table digging in.

"We should probably leave as soon as possible," I said. I was ravenous. I devoured that meal like I hadn't eaten in days.

"We're going to have to," Martin said. "If we can get over the San Gabriels we can reach Kern County by noon."

"If the roads aren't messed up that should be no problem," James added.

"We have a Thomas Brothers guide," Tracy piped in. She was sitting next to Emily. "I've never driven over to that side, but I'm sure we should be able to find a route."

"What kind of vehicle do you have?" Martin asked.

"We have an SUV," Tracy said. "I filled it up the day before yesterday."

"So it's got a full tank of gas?"

Tracy nodded.

"As long as the water is on we should shower, pack some essentials, get a route planned and get out of here," I said. I looked at Martin and James. "I don't know if any of my clothes will be a perfect fit for you guys, but I'll retrieve what I've got."

Tracy glanced at Lori. "I'll do the same for you."

"Thank you," Lori said.

"Where are we going?"

Heather had just entered the upper level of the house. She looked curious, but refreshed from sleep.

"Not sure yet," I said, gesturing toward the kitchen. "Help yourself to some coffee."

"Thanks." Heather shuffled into the kitchen and began serving herself.

Tracy and Lori were hunkered over their plates, ignoring Heather's presence, and I think Martin picked up on it. When he spoke it sounded like he was addressing Heather more than the rest of us. "We're thinking of leaving as soon as we can this morning. We're going to head into Kern County just to get away from the city. After that, we don't know yet."

"Wherever we go, it should be as far away from people as possible," Heather said. She poured herself the last of the coffee.

"I agree." Martin regarded the rest of us at the table. "Anybody have any suggestions?"

"Not yet," I said. "I say we take it one step at a time and try to make it over this mountain first."

"The sooner the better," James said.

Heather took her meal at the kitchen counter. I stood up, already finished. "Heather, sit down," I said, moving past her. To the others, I called out, "Anybody want more coffee?"

The answer to that was affirmative.

As I made a second pot of coffee we talked about a game plan. Most of the ideas came from Martin and me. The more I listened to Martin talk, the more I liked him. He had a take-charge attitude that was assertive and calming. It was obvious he'd been very successful in the corporate world, and it was good to have somebody with his logical and analytical mind on our side. Lori was just as sharp, and several times she countered some of Martin's suggestions not with a rebuttal, but with a devil's advocate type question. "Say we make it as far as Edwards Air Force Base," she mused at one point. "What the hell we gonna do out there in the middle of the damn desert?"

"We can at least see if any military personnel have survived," Martin explained. "I'm betting most of them haven't. If they're primitives, they've scattered by now. If any remain, we kill them and we can get more weapons and provisions from the base."

"And if anybody's human and they're hostile?" Lori asked.

Martin's face clouded. "That's a possibility, but to think about that will only hinder us."

"I say anybody we meet from now on who's human will need to be treated with extreme caution," Tracy offered.

As we debated this I watched Heather. She wolfed down her food, occasionally glancing at the others with a sense of distrust in her eyes. Yep, that girl could sure hold a grudge. I noticed Tracy watching her occasionally. I could tell she and Lori weren't taking well to Heather's presence. As long as they remained civil about it, I didn't care if they weren't speaking to her. Still, I'd have to keep an eye on Heather myself.

With a second pot of coffee brewed and breakfast finished, Tracy swung into action as director of evacuation. "There's showers in both bathrooms," she said. "Lori and Martin, if you want to go first, go for it. Towels are in the linen closet downstairs. I'll get some clean clothes for both of you."

As everybody sprang into action, Heather remained at the table eating. Tracy got Emily up and headed downstairs with her while Martin and Lori retreated to the bathrooms to shower and change. I headed downstairs to keep stock of the weapons and assist Tracy.

I was in the master bedroom gathering clothes for the guys and myself when Tracy came in with Emily. She closed the door. "Stay right here, sweetie," she told Emily.

Emily nodded and sat down on the floor. She looked solemn.

Tracy approached me and when we talked it was in low, yet passionate, tones. "I know Heather's just a kid, but I don't trust her," she said. "I'd like to get rid of her once we get on the other side of the mountain."

"Get rid of her?"

"Yes! Just dump her at the side of the road or something. Let her fend for herself."

"Tracy—"

"I. Don't. Trust her!" Tracy's features were grim. Determined. She had an icy sense of resolve in her eyes. Her decision was Final.

"I don't trust her completely myself, but we can't just drop her off in the middle of the desert and let her fend for herself!"

"What do you suggest we do then? We can't take everybody to the cabin?"

"No, we can't." I'm glad she brought the subject of the cabin up. We were on the same wavelength then. I'd been thinking of heading to the cabin ever since late yesterday when I realized things were no longer going to be safe for us in Los Angeles.

"I really like Lori," Tracy said. "And Martin and James seem like great guys. But I don't like Heather and after what happened last night, I don't know if I can trust her around Emily."

"I agree we need to be careful around her." I was choosing my words carefully, my brain on autopilot now. "And I think Martin is hip to what you're feeling." I gave Tracy a brief recap of my conversation with Martin last night.

"We still need to talk about the cabin," Tracy said.

I sighed. Tracy was right. The cabin would be empty now. Nobody in my family had been scheduled to be there this week, which meant the power would be turned off and there'd be minimal food there. There was the possibility the cabin was stocked with dry and canned goods, however. Things like fresh juice or meats could be procured (again, depending if the power was still on and things weren't spoiled) from the local store once we arrived in town. The best thing about the cabin? Our closest neighbor was two miles away. The fewer people who were in the area when this hit, the fewer primitives there would be.

"I agree," I said. "What do you think we should do?"

"I trust everybody except Heather. I say we tell her she has to leave when we get over the mountain."

"What about everybody else?" I countered. "I have a feeling James isn't going to be so wild about that." My general feeling was that James was not only the live-and-let live type of guy, but very liberal. I mean, hell, he was a college professor.

Tracy didn't look happy. She glowered at me. "What if she does something to Emily?"

"She won't." I was serious about this. "There's enough of us now that if anything happens, Emily will be protected. And I hardly think you or I would let Heather be alone with Emily for even one second."

Tracy sighed. "You're right." She glanced at Emily, then back at me. "Okay. She stays."

"You and Emily are the most important people to me," I said. "I do not intend to let her out of our sight for even an instant. You got me?"

Tracy sighed, nodded, and we embraced quickly. "Come on," I whispered. "Let's get going."

* * *

Like a well-oiled machine, we showered and dressed in fresh clothes. Tracy gave Emily a bath. I found fresh clothes for James and Martin from my stock and packed two pairs of jeans and shorts and two pairs of T-shirts for me, along with socks and a pair of Doc Martens. I also scrounged up some heavy winter clothing—three sets—in the event we wound up in the mountains during the winter months. Martin commented to me that this was a good idea (I hadn't told him about the cabin yet. He simply surmised it was good I was thinking ahead).

When Heather was in the shower I packed up all the ammunition and magazines and stowed them in the back of the SUV. I placed ammo and magazines beneath the front seats. Our rule for keeping control of the guns still stood between Tracy and I. I had a hunting knife I'd picked up somewhere and I attached it to my holster, making sure it was in the sheath it came in. We also packed up toiletries, batteries, candles, matches, flashlights, food and essential cooking utensils, and fresh water. Tracy packed clothes for herself and Emily. She also packed up our two baby photo albums of Eric and Emily, and I grabbed the CD ROMs of our photos to go along with my iBook (which also contained backup disks of all my work...not that I'd be doing anything with it, but old habits die hard).

All this stuff fit very neatly into the back of the SUV.

As we gathered the last of our things to stow into the SUV I felt a slight sting at the back of my throat. Everybody had finished showering and was in fresh clothing (I'd found two shirts that fit Martin and he was wearing the jeans he was wearing yesterday; I didn't have any that fit him). I had the keys, and Tracy had the Thomas Brothers Guide in hand. I was looking at the living room, ignoring the broken windows and the bloodstain on the floor, and I felt a sudden pang of loss. I took a breath and looked at Tracy. I think she was feeling the same thing because I saw a tear roll down her cheek. We were leaving our home, our sanctuary. We were leaving memories. We brought Emily home from the hospital as an infant to this house. We grew as a family here. I reached the height of my career in this home when I wrote the screenplay that went on to be a major box office hit two years ago and put a lot of money in our portfolio. Likewise, Tracy spread her wings in this house and left the corporate nine-to-five grind for the uncertainty of freelancing.

And now we were leaving it.

"Come on," I said. I grabbed Tracy's hand, gave it a squeeze. "Let's go."

Tracy stifled back a sob and allowed me to pull her away. Emily was standing by her side and I think the fact that we were leaving the only home she'd ever known was affecting her, too. She looked sad, reflective.

The others were gathered at the doorway to the garage. Martin nodded to me. "I checked the front. We're clear."

I closed the door that led into the house. We were huddled around the front of the SUV. "Okay," I said. "There's six adults, one child. Emily will sit in Tracy's lap in the front seat. I've placed the luggage and supplies on the rear seats and in the back compartment, so even though we're pretty full with luggage we should still be able to seat all four of you, but it'll be tight."

"No problem," Martin said.

We piled in the SUV. Previously, I'd handed the Kimber to Tracy, so she was armed with it and two extra magazines. I'd unloaded the rifle and placed it on the floor of the front seat. Fully loaded magazines were within easy reach. Even though I trusted Martin and Lori, who were sitting directly behind us in the back seat, I felt uneasy about letting them have a loaded rifle within easy reach of Heather. Tracy's paranoia over Heather was making me nervous about her.

"Here goes," I said. I opened the garage door with the remote.

The garage door whirred open. I put the SUV in reverse and backed out into our street.

The neighborhood was laden with smoke that was growing thicker. There were no signs of people or primitives anywhere. As I pulled the car down the street I passed my first body—it was my neighbor, Stan Ellwood, dressed in his suit. Something had been at him and torn his left arm from his body and gouged his eyeballs out of his head. His head was one raw mass of flesh and splintered bone. Something that looked like red, curdled cheese leaked out of his skull.

Tracy held Emily close to her, keeping her face averted from the body.

With a sinking sense of loss, we made our way out of our neighborhood.

* * *

We made it over the San Gabriel Mountains with no trouble at all. The main highway that wound its way through the rocky passes was mostly empty. A few vehicles had crashed into the sides of rock walls, their passengers either dead from the impact or scampered off...in what state, I don't know. The farther away we got from Los Angeles, the more the smoke began to thin out, but that took a good while. Los Angeles County is pretty goddamn big, and it took sixty miles and almost three hours to put us away from much of the smoke and smog that still enveloped the city like a blanket.

During the three-hour ride we didn't speak much. We also didn't see any living human beings.

But we saw plenty of primitives.

We saw our first one just as we reached the bottom of the San Gabriel Mountains, on the other side of the valley. A group of them were huddled around a crashed vehicle and as we sped by they yelled, waved their arms, and started chasing us. They gave up the pursuit after a short distance.

"There's gonna be more," Martin said from the back seat.

"Don't worry," I said, gripping the steering wheel. "We're not stopping for anything."

By one o'clock we were in Kern County heading north. This section of California is barren desert. Death Valley is close by, and in the summer the temperature can climb to one hundred and twenty degrees Fahrenheit. We had our route well mapped, though. We'd skirt Bakersfield on the north, cut through Edwards Air Force base to the south and head north toward the Sierra Nevada mountain range. With any luck, we'd get to our cabin tomorrow.

I thought about what we should do during our drive through the San Gabriels. We couldn't just dump Heather in Kern County, and we couldn't turn James, Martin, and Lori away from our cabin. It would be wrong. I was determined to talk to Tracy about this in private when we pulled over for a rest and a bite to eat. I was hoping she'd settled down on her feelings toward Heather. If not, I didn't know what we were going to do. The Heather problem hung over me, an unnecessary burden.

We passed plenty of primitives. Some were far off in barren fields and we heard them hoot and holler as we passed. Others were spotted at rest stops, near cars and buildings. There was no way they could catch us, and as we drove my hopes began to dwindle. If the primitives stayed close to where they'd been most familiar with when they were human, that would mean we'd come across quite a few of them on our trek to the mountains. I was hoping they would have scattered, sought more developed areas. Apparently that didn't seem to be the case as we passed pockets of primitives on our trek through Kern County. It was a little like driving through the San Diego Wild Animal Park, except the animals were human.

We stopped along a barren stretch of road to rest and grab a quick bite to eat and quench our thirst. We piled out of the SUV, hot and sweaty and alert for anything. The last primitives we'd passed were ten miles back. I kept my eyes peeled for anything weird as Lori got the rear of the SUV open. Tracy kept Emily close to her side as we all made our way to the back of the vehicle.

We sat on the side of the road and ate a quick lunch of fruit, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that Tracy and Heather made. We'd passed a rest area fifteen miles back that appeared deserted, which consisted of a pair of gas stations and a couple of fast food restaurants. Before that was farmland. There were no signs of dwellings or business establishments to be seen in the last fifty miles. I always wondered about rest stops like the one we'd passed. Where did they get the people who worked them? With no housing nearby, I found it hard to believe fast food workers would drive all that way to work a minimum wage job.

I was thinking about this little diversion that, in the old days, would have been the basis for a short story. It would probably be something about alien pod people sprouting out of the ground at the crack of dawn to work at these gas stations and fast food facilities. I grew suddenly sad. There would be no more short stories. No more novels, no more essays or columns in magazines and web publications. No more screenplays. No more movies, for that matter. Civilization as we knew it was gone, and if it had been any other time I would have had a crying fit.

Instead what interrupted my little reverie was the howl.

I was up in a flash. The others stopped eating—most of us were already finished—and looked around. I looked north and saw two things: several people running toward us from about five hundred yards away to the north, and a vehicle heading down a secondary road in the same direction toward the highway we were parked on.

"Get in the car," I said.

Everybody scrambled. Food was picked up, supplies thrown in the back of the SUV, the door slammed shut. I nodded at Martin and he dashed toward the front of the SUV and grabbed the Ruger and magazines. I made my way toward the driver's side of the SUV and drew my handgun, keeping watch on the vehicle and the primitives. The vehicle reached the road we were on and started heading toward us.

I checked out the primitives. They were running fast. If we left now, did a U Turn and started heading in the direction we came from we could out-distance them easily.

But there was that other vehicle to consider.

How many people were in it? And were they friend or foe?

Everybody got into the SUV and I could hear Emily start to cry. My heart was racing as I caught Martin's gaze. His features were set in grim determination. He jacked a round in the chamber and I realized that the vehicle was coming at us too fast. It would be on us at any minute and I did the only thing I could do. I yelled at everybody in the SUV. "Get down!" Then I joined Martin at the front of the SUV, pulled my gun and waited.

The vehicle drew up across the road from us and I saw it was a Jeep. There was a man behind the wheel—he was white, that much I was sure of in the few seconds that followed.

As the Jeep pulled up the man shouted, "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! They're coming!"

I saw that the people running toward us were primitives and they were yelling in a mad war whoop, gaining rapidly. There were about half a dozen of them and were now about fifty yards away. I aimed, and squeezed off three shots.

More gunshots followed. I heard Martin shooting at them with the Ruger and I heard a third firearm that at first I could not immediately place. The primitives were shot and dropped. I looked toward the Jeep and saw the driver was cradling some kind of rifle. He'd opened fire through the open passenger side window at the primitives. He turned toward us, his rifle still aimed out the passenger side of his vehicle. "Are there any coming from the east?"

"No," Martin shouted.

I saw the man look down the road toward where we'd just come from. I heard Martin say, "Nothing coming from the north, either."

And that's how we met Wesley Smitts.

Six

The three of us met in the middle of the road, like dogs sniffing each other cautiously. Wesley exited his vehicle cradling a mean-looking military assault rifle, which I later found to be an M16. He held it muzzle pointed skyward as we introduced each other.

Wesley Smitts was a career military man. An Army Colonel, he was stationed out of Fort Bragg in North Carolina and was in California to assist in some military training at the Marine Base in Camp Pendleton. He'd actually been in the Malibu area when the epidemic—or whatever the hell it was—began reverting people to their primitive state. He was heading towards Edwards Air Force base when our paths crossed.

"Why Edwards?" Martin asked. I could tell Martin was playing dumb, since that was the direction we were heading.

"There might be people there," Wesley explained. He looked to be around my age, with brown hair and a stocky build. "And if there aren't, there should be plenty of weapons available for the taking."

"And if there are people?" Martin asked.

"I don't know," Wesley said. He looked back at the field where the dead primitives lay. "I mean...part of me feels that if there's any order left in this world it'll be found at some military installation." He regarded us calmly and there was something in his look, in the subtle shift in his eyes that told me he knew more than he was letting on. I didn't get a bad feeling from him. It wasn't that, just that he might know about what happened but wasn't prepared to talk about it yet.

Two can play at that game.

I pretended I didn't notice that subtle shift in his eyes. "Part of me feels that way, too," I said. "Which way is Edwards Air Force base?"

Wesley motioned east. "Five miles that way."

"And if there aren't any people left?" Martin asked.

Wesley shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. I figure if there aren't, I can grab some weapons, head into Northern Nevada or something. Get the hell away from major metropolitan areas."

"That's what we're aiming to do," Martin said.

Wesley looked toward the SUV. "How many of you are there?"

I told him and he nodded. Again, I felt no threat from him, although that old part of me raised its ugly head and began talking to me. Don't trust him! I ignored it.

"Would you mind if we tagged along with you to Edwards?" Martin asked.

"Of course not," Wesley said, and that made me feel better.

We led him back to the SUV and everybody got back out. Introductions were made, and when Tracy was introduced to him she was polite but I could tell she was cautious. I introduced Wesley to Emily, our daughter, and he smiled. "I have a little boy named Billy that's about your age back in North Carolina," he said. Then, as if realizing he'd just stumbled over an emotional trip mine, his face suddenly went red. He turned away quickly. "Shit." He looked at me, his eyes turning red. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice cracking.

"It's okay," I said.

It was awkward being around Wesley Smitts as he fought to control his emotions. And I suppose this sounds pretty shitty, but I was glad he lost it. If he hadn't displayed that deep sense of grief, if he hadn't almost started bawling right there in front of complete strangers over the probable loss of his son and whatever family he might have had I would have felt uneasy about him. Any man who can display that kind of affection was the kind of person I wanted on our side. It meant he had feelings, that he had somebody he loved who he missed greatly and was grieving for them. And if he could grieve, then he could empathize with others. He might find a way to empathize with us.

Wesley got himself together and turned back to us. "My apologies. It's been...a tough forty-eight hours."

"I know," Tracy murmured.

"You're the first people I've come across that weren't like that back there," he jerked a thumb back at the primitives we'd just killed. He quickly explained that he'd been attending a military conference at a hotel in Malibu when the world changed so suddenly. He was outside in the parking lot, at his jeep, when it happened and he'd gotten the hell out. He'd made it back to the local armory where things weren't much better. "I was able to get in and grab this," he said, holding up the rifle. "I got a handful of ammo and took off. It was...madness!"

I told the group that Wesley was planning to check out Edwards Air Force Base. Lori looked doubtful. "You really think anybody will still be there?"

"If there is, ma'am, I have the credentials to get in," he said.

We talked about strategy. Wesley agreed to lead the way in his jeep and if the area were still in lock-down as it probably was when the shit started hitting the fan, he would attempt to gain entry. If he were successful, he would verify our identities and non-primitive status. "It's possible they'll be hostile to you," he explained. "They might even order you off the perimeter. If that happens we should meet back here and I'll come back in two hours. Hopefully with more weapons and information."

"And if you aren't back in two hours?" I asked.

"Then you need to assume the worst."

"Maybe we should just forget Edwards," Tracy said. She looked nervous. "I mean, if there's anybody left that's not affected...do you really think they're going to still follow whatever orders they may have received? Suppose law and order has broken down in there?"

"She's right," James added. He was wearing one of my T-shirts, a crew shirt from one of the films I'd worked on. "The kind of social disorder we've just experienced could have altered things forever. It could be total anarchy in there."

I silently agreed. I've read enough apocalyptic fiction—have even written a smidgeon of it—to know enough about basic human nature. And in this type of scenario, with a total breakdown of order and law and the codes of civilization that bring us together and keep us from being the animals we really are, it's easy to imagine order reverting to chaos.

"We won't know until that's verified," Wesley said.

Martin and I glanced at each other. We'd become the unofficial leaders of our little clan and we quietly acknowledged that Wesley was right. Despite my private misgivings, we had to check it out. We had to have hope. "Let's do it," I said.

Tracy protested as we piled back into our respective vehicles. Wesley made a U-turn, headed north, and I followed. "This is insane," she said. "We have more than enough supplies to last us until we get to our cabin and we can get more at the local sport shop in town."

"You have a cabin?" Heather asked.

"Yes," I said. The cat's out of the bag now. To Tracy, I said, "I'm not going to put us in any danger. First sign of anything fucked up, I'm hanging back."

Martin had retained control of the Ruger when he got into the back seat. Okay by me. I felt better now with him in control of it.

"Mommy, where are we going?" Emily asked.

"Don't worry, honey," Tracy said. Emily was on her lap, cradled against her.

I hoped we were doing the right thing.

Wesley led us about a mile up the road, then made a right down a secondary road. I followed. As we drove along, the terrain became more barren and desolate. I could see hills in the distance. I knew that Edwards Air Force base was very close, that the U. S. government had claimed a large part of this land in California for their use and that they'd been rather strict in enforcing a No Trespassing law. I also figured that if the majority of military personnel had turned primitive during the past two days, they might still be in the area. Did I really want to drive right into an area where there might be a mass of primitives?

I slowed to a stop, the realization hitting me, fear suddenly taking over. As I brought the SUV to a stop, Wesley slowed down and stopped too. "What's wrong?" Tracy asked.

I couldn't explain it. I didn't know how to. All I felt was this enormous sense of dread. It was like a sixth sense. It felt...almost spiritual...that I could feel some kind of unknown force ahead of us gathering strength. It felt like this force was malevolent and dark. It was akin to the feeling I'd had last week, only subtler, when I saw that weird drawing on the wall in Hollywood and that caveman-like homeless person.

"You okay, David?" Martin asked from the backseat. He was leaning forward.

"Something's weird," James said. His tone of voice told me he felt it, too.

"No shit!" Lori said.

My feelings were confirmed. Everybody else was feeling it, too.

Emily whimpered in Tracy's lap. "I want to go home!"

Tracy comforted her and I read the fear in her eyes. She felt it, too.

Wesley backed his jeep up. He opened the driver's side door and looked back at us. "Everything okay?"

I leaned out the window. "Change of plans," I called out. "We'll wait back at the main highway for you."

For a moment there was no response. Then he called out, "Okay. It's almost two o'clock now. I'll meet you back at the intersection by four. If I'm not back by then, assume the worst."

"Roger!"

Wesley closed the driver's side door and headed down the road while I made a U-turn and headed back.

"What the hell was that?" Martin asked. I think we all knew what he was talking about. I could see his face in the rearview mirror. He'd gotten that same vibe we all did.

"I don't know," I answered.

"What are you talking about?" Heather asked. "What's got you all so freaked out?"

"You don't feel it?" James asked her.

"No!"

I tried to catch a glimpse of Heather in the rearview mirror. She looked truly confused and irritated. That feeling of dread, that the rest of us felt, that indescribable feeling there was something out there, was totally lost on her.

"This is the wisest choice," I said. "Chances are if there's any military personnel left in that facility we wouldn't get past the checkpoint anyway. We're better off waiting out here."

"We have enough weapons to defend ourselves against any primitives," Martin said. "They're not exactly stealthy."

Little did I know that those words would come back to haunt us an hour later.

* * *

We made it back to the intersection and pulled over at the side of the road. The heat of the sun beat heavily on us and we got out of the vehicle. Tracy spread blankets and towels over the dirt on the side of the road and we sat down in a rough semi-circle to await Wesley's return. We spent the next hour talking while Lori, Tracy and I took turns playing with Emily. I was struck by how in the midst of all that chaos we'd still managed to throw in together like a well-oiled machine. Only Heather had seemed to hold back a bit on her background from our talk last night and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Now as we made chitchat, she offered what appeared to be the barest sketch of her own history: that she was a high school senior and was at home yesterday ditching school. I began to wonder if my initial feelings about her were correct, that she was simply a troubled teenager. Other things, however, bothered me.

The primary one was when Martin started talking about his life partner, Jerry. When Martin related rather matter-of-factly that he and Jerry had been partners for three years and had planned to marry in a civil union this fall, I snuck a peek at Heather. She was glowering at him with a look she was doing her best to mask, but which spoke volumes.

It was one of pure hatred.

Martin's voice echoed in my memories from last night. I've never had a run-in with those so-called Aryan Nations racists, but...

But nothing. I'd made a vow to myself years ago to never judge a person based on their appearance and I was damned if I was going to start now. Maybe Heather was simply homophobic. Surely that had to be the reason for that look.

Tracy didn't appear to notice. Neither did Lori or James, for that matter. James talked about his son and his wife, how he missed them, and he almost started crying again. At one point I asked Heather about her parents. Did she worry about them? "Yeah, I do," she said. She was looking down, picking at the towel she sat on. She was wearing my Dawn of the Dead T-shirt and a pair of Tracy's shorts.

"Do you think they're okay?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I don't know. I like to think they are."

"What did your folks do?"

Heather didn't say anything. She wouldn't look up at anybody, either. The pause was uncomfortable and she finally shrugged and threw a pebble she'd been twiddling in her fingers. "Nothing much. Just...you know...usual stuff."

"I'm hot!" Emily protested. Lori was holding her in her lap and Emily turned to her mother. "I'm really hot, Mommy!"

"C'mere sweetie," Tracy said, opening her arms to her.

"I really just want to go home!" Emily started to cry again.

I heard a rustle behind me.

How long they'd been creeping up in the field behind us, I have no idea. There were a bunch of them, well over thirty, and they were spread out in a rough semi-circle one hundred yards away from us. Some of them were hunched over as if to avoid being seen, others were walking stealthily, their gaze fixed on us. When they saw me turn they cried out in unison, "Aaarrrggghhhh!" and charged.

"Get Emily in the car!" I shouted at Tracy. I stood up, drew the Sig and started shooting.

Everybody was up and running toward the SUV. I quickly emptied the magazine, ejected the empty, slapped in a new one and continued firing. I got most of my targets, and just as I was beginning to really panic I heard another volley of gunfire beside me. Lori had somehow grabbed the Kimber and she held it in the classic firing stance, firing the weapon with a mad determination set in her face. Likewise, Martin had retrieved the Ruger and he let blast with a barrage of semi-automatic gunfire that seemed like something out of a movie. The primitives were so close then—fifty to twenty yards away thanks to their stealth and mad sprint—and all we had to do was point our weapons and spray. The barrage of gunfire was so loud, the frenzy of our counter-attack and the surprise of everything so overwhelming, that I didn't even realize some of them were holding sticks and rocks as makeshift weapons. I didn't realize this until several of the rocks clattered around the SUV uselessly. One whacked the hood, leaving a dent, but I didn't see that until much later.

With the smell of gunfire heavy in the air and that weird feeling hitting me again, my heart was pumping. Several of the primitives were still alive. They were lying on the ground, wailing in pain, clutching legs, arms, and shoulders. "How the hell did they just sneak up on us?" Lori asked, her voice trembling.

"I don't know." I took a quick look around. Thank God we noticed them soon enough or we'd probably all be dead by now. "This isn't good."

"No shit it isn't good!" Martin exclaimed. He ejected the spent magazine of the Ruger and slapped in a fresh one. "They not only snuck up on us, they were throwing rocks!"

"What?" This was the first I heard of this.

Martin motioned at the road. A dozen rocks lay on the ground, some near the jeep. "Some of them were throwing rocks, but they were too far away to do any damage."

Through the ringing in my ears I was finally aware of the rest of our clan, especially Emily, who was screaming in the SUV. My heart bled for her. It felt horrible to hear my little girl cry out in such absolute fright like that.

"Behind us to the east!" Martin cried out and then I heard him unleash another barrage of gunfire again. More primitives.

I was near the driver's side of the SUV and I got the door open, reached underneath the seat and grabbed some more magazines. Tracy was hunkered down in the front seat, shielding Emily from what was happening. Emily was hysterical, screaming and crying that she wanted to get out of here, she just wanted to go home now! From the backseat, James was saying, "What's going on? Are they dead? What's happening?" and Heather was saying, "This is so fucked up!" but I didn't stop to engage them with their questions or comments. I got back into the fray, fresh magazine in my Sig and joined Martin and Lori, who were firing away at another onslaught of primitives who'd snuck up on us from the east. How we didn't see them while driving back to the main road from the direction of Edwards Air Force base, I have no idea. Somehow they'd snuck up on us from the east and the other group had snuck up on us from the west in what appeared to be a coordinated move. Once again they were no match for firearms. I have no idea how far back they were before Martin noticed this batch, but they couldn't have been more than a hundred yards away. They were dropping like flies from the gunfire. A few rocks were lobbed at us. One lucky bastard somehow avoided being hit by all the gunfire and was getting closer to us. He was dressed in a tattered fast food restaurant uniform. He let out a war whoop and lobbed a rock our way. It came dangerously close, hitting the roof of the SUV. Another rock struck Lori in the shoulder. "Hey!" she yelled. She ejected a spent magazine from the .45 and was slapping a fresh one in when another rock hit her right arm. She brought the gun up but I beat her to it. I took that primitive down with a headshot and Martin took care of another one for me, emptying out the rest of his magazine into him as the primitive did a mad dance, dropping another rock harmlessly to the ground.

In the brief silence that followed I quickly checked all directions. Nothing as far as the eye could see. "We seem to be clear," I said.

Amid Emily's screams in the SUV I could hear the howls of pain from those primitives that were still alive. I had three fresh magazines stuffed down my jeans and I don't know how many rounds left in my Sig. To Lori, I said, "Make sure they're okay in there." She nodded and darted toward the SUV. "I'll take these," I said to Martin, stepping toward the east field to finish off the wounded.

"I'll take care of the others," I heard Martin say.

As I entered the field toward the first wounded primitive, I was filled with an unimaginable fury. It was so great that I didn't care about wasting the ammo. We'd almost been killed! I took my fury and anger out on the first wounded primitive I saw, shooting him in the head. What passed for his brains splattered the rocks behind him.

A rock smashed into the back of my shoulder and almost knocked me to the ground.

When I turned around I saw one of the wounded primitives pawing at the ground for another rock. He'd taken a gunshot to the leg and was splayed out on his right side. He was wearing the tattered remnants of a work shirt and a dirty pair of blue jeans. His hair hung in his face. He had a wild look to him. His eyes met mine and he growled at me.

"You fuck," I said. I raised the Sig, placed the primitive's head in my sights and obliterated it with one shot.

I took care of the remaining surviving primitives quickly. I didn't even pause to think I was killing somebody's loved one, mother, father, sister or brother. They weren't human anymore. They were wild animals that needed to be wiped out in order to ensure my clan's safety. By the time I was finished, Martin was already at the SUV. I hurried over, adrenaline still pumping and then I was faced with a new problem. Emily was hysterical.

Tracy looked and sounded frantic as she tried to hold a struggling Emily down. "Let me go! I want to go home! Let me goooo!!!"

Lori was at the passenger side door trying to help. The Kimber was jammed down in the front pocket of the shorts she was wearing. I could see the butt of the weapon peaking out. Tracy said, "The Valium is in the back in my red bag, just get it—"

James Goodman's bearded face loomed in front of the back window. "Did you get them all?"

Martin answered him. "We got them, but there may be more."

One of the rear doors to the SUV opened and I saw Heather head out. I heard Lori rummaging around back there. I was at the front of the vehicle, near Tracy, trying to help. Emily's screams were ear piercing. "She's gonna attract more," I said.

"I know that!" Tracy shot back at me. "I'm trying to calm her down, dammit!"

"Let me gooooo!" Emily screamed.

Lori rushed back with the Valium. "Here." She passed it to Tracy. I grabbed hold of Emily and helped hold her down while Tracy forced the pill into her mouth and made her swallow it. For a brief few minutes I was in a panic as Emily gasped for air. She gagged. I was hoping that was only half a dose or less and not a full one.

"She's choking!" I panicked.

Tracy brought a bottle of Evian water to her mouth and forced it down. "Calm down baby, it's okay. Drink this."

Emily got some of the water down and let out a breath. She was breathing heavily, sweat running down her face, and then she started crying. Tracy must have noticed the worry in my face. She looked at me and said, "It was just a quarter dose, like last night."

I nodded, relieved as Emily cried.

Tracy held her close, rocking her. "It's okay honey. It's okay. Shhh."

Despite seeing that Emily was going to be okay, that she'd soon be asleep when the Valium took effect, I was still deeply troubled by what had happened.

I grabbed extra magazines for the Kimber and handed them to Lori. "Don't let that .45 out of your sight," I said. She nodded and I turned back to Tracy. "I'm gonna close the door so she can calm down."

Tracy nodded and I closed the passenger side door of the SUV and headed back to the driver's side to take stock. I was running low on ammo. I headed to the back of the SUV where Martin was already reloading magazines for the Ruger. James Goodman and Heather were standing awkwardly at the side of the road, looking uncomfortable and nervous. "How long do you think it'll take before we see more?" I asked.

"Don't know," Martin said. "Wish we had more weapons, though."

"Hopefully Wesley will come back with more."

"I'm wondering if it's still a good idea to wait for him," Martin said. He'd already filled up three magazines and was starting on a fourth.

"Why?"

Martin paused. Sweat dotted his face. He looked toward the east where dead primitives lay. "No telling how far sound travels now that everything's changed. More could be heading this way and I don't like the way this attack was carried out. They planned this, David."

"No shit they planned it," Lori said. She was standing to my left. She was filling magazines for the Kimber. "Who's to say they won't learn to use guns eventually?"

I wanted to tell them that the primitives weren't that smart. Surely they saw the news coverage yesterday, of the live feeds showing policemen suddenly dropping their weapons uselessly on the ground as they turned primitive. Their behavior today was far from stealthy, especially when it came to the attacks on my house last night.

But I knew they were right.

"Let's wait it out," I said. "We'll keep watch, first sign of anything in the distance we get in the car and go. We can always come back later for Wesley."

Lori was finished loading the magazines for the .45. She looked at her watch. "It's just after three-fifteen. He's not here by five on the dot, we're out of here."

"Agreed." We can leave a note pinned to a rock or something for him if need be.

When all the weapons were reloaded I stuck about half a dozen magazines in various pockets, as did Lori and Martin. James and Heather were standing about five feet apart from each other, James pacing the front of the SUV, Heather kicking pebbles on the ground, looking restless. "You want to watch the north?" I called to her.

She looked at me. "Do I get a gun?"

"Sorry. We don't have enough."

Something crossed her features briefly and then she relented. "Okay." She headed to the front of the jeep to stand watch.

Martin, Lori and I split up to the east, south and west respectively. I opened the driver's side door of the SUV to check on Emily. Tracy was cradling her in her arms. Emily was already fast asleep, her mouth hanging open. Tracy looked exhausted. "I don't know how much more of this I can take," she said. She looked ready to crack emotionally. And with the trauma of losing Eric, I'm surprised she was able to hold herself together this long.

"We're gonna wait for Wesley and if he isn't back by five, we're out of here," I told her.

"We should leave now!"

"Honey, we need a guy like him!"

"No we don't! What if more of those things come?"

I told her we were all watching out for them and at the first sign of any primitives, we were getting in the vehicle and leaving. She seemed to accept that. "We have three quarters of a tank of gas," she said. "That should be enough to get us out of here, at least to the foothills of the Sierras."

"And we can siphon more if need be," I said.

"This last attack," Tracy began. "They were throwing rocks at us, weren't they?"

I couldn't lie about that. "Yeah."

She looked worried.

"We've got it covered," I said again. When she didn't say anything else I closed the door and looked west. Aside from dead primitives lying in the fields, I saw nothing but shrubbery and barren fields in either direction.

Martin was right, though. Sound traveled very well in the high desert. Especially after normal civilization had ceased.

The first signs of more trouble came about an hour later.

Seven

The heat was unbearable. It beat down on us like a sticky thing, relentless and stifling. As the sun began its descent in the west, I felt its full effect. At one point, Tracy rolled down all the windows of the SUV and even started the engine for a while to get the AC going. Emily was fast asleep in the front seat and we left her there, slumped across it with the doors and windows open for cross ventilation. Tracy joined me on the west side and eventually we all grouped together again. Only Heather remained near the front of the SUV, occasionally heading to the rear of the vehicle for a snack. For the most part, we all made a trip or two for snacks and water. The guys were able to relieve themselves in the field while the girls had to go behind the SUV for privacy.

The time passed slowly. While we were definitely more alert and aware of our surroundings now, we started talking again. James sat on the ground against the rear of the SUV. He'd taken his shirt off, as did Martin. Both men's physiques were complete opposites: James the pudgy middle-aged professor, Martin's was rock solid, muscular.

Heather noticed the second wave first. "I see more!" She said, rushing to where we were all huddled.

We scrambled to our feet, weapons in hand. Sure enough, I saw about half a dozen trotting down the road toward us.

"Nothing coming at us from the west or the east," Martin said behind me.

"Nothing from the south, either," Lori said.

I took a look at the road ahead of us. I tried to make out if there were others behind these half dozen, if perhaps more of them were sneaking up behind them. Martin and Lori were on my wavelength. "I don't see any sneaking up from any other direction," Lori said.

When I was sure we would only deal with these six, I pulled my Sig. "We can deal with them."

When the primitives saw that we'd noticed them, they stopped. I could hear them grunting, gesturing to one another. Were they communicating?

"How far away are they?" Martin asked.

"One hundred yards, maybe," I said. No problem. I raised my Sig, placed one in my sights and pulled the trigger.

One primitive dropped. The others scattered. I calmly took down two more while Martin got two. One got away.

"Fuck," I said. We watched the lone survivor grow smaller as he or she scurried out of range.

"Those things were communicating!" Lori exclaimed. She looked surprised and shocked. "Did you see that shit?"

"I saw it," I said.

Tracy, James and Heather had watched us take down the five primitives and now they joined us. "Are you sure they were communicating?" James asked.

I described the gesturing they made to each other when they saw us. James looked grim. "It's almost as if...whatever it is that causes people to revert to this stage...it's almost as if those affected are operating on a level not seen since the Neanderthal."

"What do you mean?" Heather asked.

"There was a report released a few months ago," James said, looking out across the horizon. "Scientists were able to trace the DNA strand of Neanderthals and they found out that humans share a good percent of that DNA structure. It suggests that at one point Homo sapiens and Neanderthals crossbred."

"I could've told you that," Tracy snorted. "I read Clan of the Cave Bear, too!"

James grinned. "Neanderthals and Homo sapiens co-existed for thousands of years until Neanderthals eventually died off about twenty-five thousand years ago. It's almost like what we're seeing is a total reversion of not only our physiological selves but our sociological as well. It's like a giant reset button has been pressed, reverting us back to our most primitive state."

"That's why I've been calling them primitives," I said.

"I noticed that awhile back," James said. "Very apt." What I was seeing from James Goodman was the History Professor, the man who until a few days ago challenged young minds in college classrooms. "It fits, too. I mean, some of the news footage I saw showed cops dropping their weapons when they turned. It was like they'd lost their knowledge of the weapon's use."

"Why were they attacking everybody then?" Heather asked. For the first time, she looked curious.

"Out of fear. Territory. Food."

I flashed on the scene of a primitive huddled over a dead man, tearing into the flesh of his arm, and grimaced.

"You two were in the street when this happened, right?" James asked Lori and Heather.

"I was at home," Heather said.

"Yeah, I was trying to get to work," Lori answered.

"And you said you saw them running in the street...like there was mass hysteria?"

"Well, yeah..." Lori's forehead creased with thought. "Now that you mention it, I didn't see a whole lot of attacks. Just...they were all running and howling...making those weird ass noises."

"Like monkeys being riled up in the monkey cage at the zoo," James said. "That's what we experienced yesterday. And those who didn't turn and were caught up in it were attacked because they were in the way. Rile up monkeys at the zoo, get them scared and be in the middle of it, you'd be attacked just like yesterday."

"So what we're seeing now is their natural behavior?" This came from me.

"That's what it seems," James replied. He motioned to the fields along both sections of the road. "Primitive man was very smart. Very cunning. He communicated with members of his own tribe and they were smart enough to hunt in packs and do a lot of things in their own little communities. Modern apes like chimps and baboons, even gorillas, share this trait. Now that they've calmed down after the sudden transition of their change or whatever it was that caused this, they're behaving normally." He regarded us with a frown. "And we're a threat."

Nobody asked how we could be a threat to them. We all knew this was the case. We regarded the primitives as enemies and would kill any we came across.

And somehow they knew this.

"Different ape species regard one another as their natural enemies as do other animal species," James continued. "It's instinctual. What we're seeing now is no different. They see us as the enemy and they'll kill us if they can."

"So you think that's why they snuck up on us today?" Tracy asked. "They saw us and just...coordinated this attack?"

"Absolutely. We have to assume that packs or tribes have already been formed. The ones that attacked us? We were probably in their territory."

"And those?" Tracy indicated the ones down the road we'd just killed.

"They heard the gunfire and commotion from who knows where and were attracted to it."

"I would think that a sound like gunfire would scare them," I mused. "Why would it attract them?"

Silence for a moment. When James answered, his voice was grave. "The primitives we saw today were bearing weapons. Maybe they...recognized the gunfire for what it was."

"What's that?" Lori asked.

"A call to battle."

* * *

Twenty minutes later there was another skirmish.

Tracy had retreated to the SUV to tend to Emily when I noticed it. "Something's happening," I motioned to Martin. We were standing near the rear of the SUV and I nodded toward the east field where a plume of dust was rising.

Martin squinted into the distance. "Looks like a vehicle."

"Is that Wesley coming back?" Lori heard us and came back from the west side where she'd been keeping watch. James and Heather joined us.

"I don't know," I said.

There was movement in the field, way off in the distance. For the first time I wished we had a pair of binoculars.

The vehicle was drawing closer. Suddenly it seemed to stop.

The sounds that came back to us were very clear and unmistakable.

Gunshots.

"That's got to be him," I said. I drew my Sig.

The gunshots sounded like they were from an automatic weapon. They went on for about a minute and I heard faint screams and yells. It was definitely somebody firing on a bunch of primitives.

A moment later the vehicle resumed heading in our direction from the secondary road.

"It's him!" Lori said.

"We've got more coming from the north," Martin called.

I turned around. Sure enough, there was a bunch of them heading toward us from that direction. They appeared to be a good distance away.

Wesley drew closer, coming fast. I went to Tracy and said, "Stay with Emily." She nodded and the rest of us met Wesley in the middle of the road where he pulled the jeep to a stop.

"We got a bunch more coming from the west!" Martin shouted. He shouldered the rifle, ready to take aim.

"I got more weapons in the back!" Wesley called out. He jumped out of the Jeep bearing a mean-looking black M4 and waited with Martin and me for the primitives to get closer.

"Lori, cover the east!" I called out.

I could hear James and Heather fumbling with something in the rear of the Jeep and when Heather said, "Now that's what I'm talking about!" I felt a nervous pang. For some reason knowing that girl was now arming herself made me nervous. I tried to put it out of my mind, to tell myself that she would be an incredible asset to our little clan and those thoughts were justified when she called out. "There's more coming from the north!"

"Wait until they're within range!" Wesley called out.

I stole a quick glance toward the rear of the Jeep. Heather had armed herself with a black pistol and stood in the standard firing stance, feet shoulder-width apart, weapon held out in front of her in both hands and pointing toward the primitives heading our way. James was still fumbling in the back for a suitable weapon and I felt a little more relieved to see that Heather appeared to know what she was doing. I checked the direction south of us. All clear.

"Okay!" Wesley called out. The primitives were a good two hundred yards away and we could now see they were carting weapons—sticks, baseball bats, and shovels. Gunfire erupted from all directions, and amid the yells and screams as the primitives dropped I felt a sense of something that I still can't describe. The primitives were no match for our weaponry and we killed about thirty of them in the space of two minutes. Despite that fact, I felt that we'd turned the tide toward something else...something darker. Even though we could easily massacre the primitives, knew they were no match for us technologically, I had the sense they had something else on their side. Something larger than themselves, larger than all of us, something unseen and dark, a malevolent force.

Like the previous bands of primitives, this newest batch not only had makeshift weapons, they threw rocks at us. None of them came close to their targets and within five minutes they were all dead. Heather came around the back of the Jeep, her face flush. "Got some of those motherfuckers!"

"Good girl," I said. I ejected my spent magazine and inserted a fresh one.

"Notice something about these?" Wesley asked.

"I do," Martin said. He looked troubled.

"They look like wetbacks," Heather said, matter-of-factly. I saw Lori frown at that statement.

Wesley nodded, seemingly unaffected by Heather's comment. "Take a look. They used to be migrant workers."

It was hard to see them from this far but Wesley had a pair of binoculars that he handed to me. How he could see them from that far away was amazing. The guy had eyesight like an eagle. I took a peek. Sure enough, the tattered remnants of their clothing, their dark, swarthy features, all suggested they were Mexican immigrants who'd been living in this area working California's ripe fields during picking season. I glanced at Martin, who met my gaze. It was obvious that gunning these people down bothered him.

"There's farms about twenty, maybe thirty miles from here," I said, handing the binoculars to Lori.

"And beyond those farms will be more," Wesley said. "I doubt we'll see any more primitives today. My guess is most of them are too far out of earshot to have heard any of this."

Tracy called from the SUV. "Everything okay?"

I called back to her. "We got 'em."

I quickly told Wesley about our own battles during the period he'd been at Edwards and he nodded. "I came across a similar situation. I'll tell you more about that later. Is your daughter okay?" I'd told him about her panic attack.

"Yeah, she's asleep. Come on."

We reconvened near the SUV. Tracy got out and joined us.

"To make a long story short, there's no normal survivors at Edwards," Wesley said. He looked grave. "If there were, they've left. I saw plenty of dead soldiers. Probably normals who were taken by surprise, and primitives who'd been shot. It wasn't a pretty sight."

I could only imagine.

"The security gate was open and I got through fine," Wesley continued. "I went to the main barracks, found that everybody was dead, and started looking for weapons. I've got a nice stash back at the jeep. Close to ten thousand rounds of various caliber ammunition, a bunch of military-issued rifles and handguns, even found a couple of shoulder-mounted missiles."

"Damn!" Heather exclaimed.

"I found something else, too. I don't know how else to describe it except...well..." He looked at Tracy and me. "You got a piece of paper and a pen?"

"My bag, in the back," I said. "Hold on." I retreated to the rear of the SUV, found it, and handed it over to him.

"After I rearmed I took a quick drive around the base," Wesley said. He started sketching something in the spiral notebook I gave him. "Didn't see anything but bodies. My guess is everybody scampered off when they turned primitive. Those that didn't were either driven away or killed. I only saw a few cases where those that didn't turn had stayed at their posts. In all cases they'd run out of ammo and were simply overwhelmed by primitives. Lots of bullet-riddled primitives and one torn up dead grunt, if you know what I mean."

I nodded. We stood around watching Wesley draw and talk.

"Anyway, I was rounding the north corner of one of the barracks and saw something weird. It was drawn on the wall and there was...well, there was a body lying there. Didn't think much of it at first but something about the way it was on the ground made me stop the Jeep. I got out and took a look and sure as shit, this guy wasn't just killed by the primitives. He was downright sacrificed."

"Sacrificed?" James asked.

"Yeah." Wesley finished sketching but kept the pad close to him. "This guy was sacrificed. There was a sketch of this on the wall."

And then he showed us the sketch.

When I saw it my heart stopped.

It was almost identical to the weird drawing I'd seen on that wall in Hollywood last week.

Picture a demonic-looking caricature. A thin, somewhat narrow chin. A thin maw for a mouth. Eyes beady and narrow, displaying a malevolent evil. A high brow with what appeared to be bony protrusions above each eyebrow well at the top of the forehead. Not much of a neck, a body that was hard to distinguish because of the blurry brush strokes, but the wings...those were the clincher. The wings stretched out from the body, and they were prominent.

"It was drawn in blood," Wesley continued. "The dead guy's blood, I'm sure. He was lying on his back and there were these other symbols and drawings on the ground." He started sketching again. "It looked like he was a soldier who didn't turn, who'd stayed true to his honor and duty. He was still dressed in his fatigues but his shirt was ripped off. His chest had been torn open and the heart yanked out. It was lying at the foot of that drawing. Likewise, his eyes had been ripped out of his head and placed with the heart, along with his genitalia."

"My God," Lori murmured.

"There was a cup lying nearby. It looked to me like it had been filled with his blood. There was some left in it. Looked like a coffee cup." He finished with this second sketch and turned it toward us. "Anyway, he was lying inside this circle thing with these patterns drawn around it. Again, it was drawn in his blood."

This second sketch showed a weird symmetrical pattern. Half circle, half parallelogram, it was a mixture of curves and straight lines with weird squiggly symbols drawn at various points. It looked strangely like some occult-symbol, albeit one that was unrecognizable to me.

"He was lying in the middle of that?" James asked. He looked amazed.

"Yeah," Wesley said. "The blood was still slightly damp. Sticky. Like it had only been done hours before."

"What do you think it means?" Tracy asked.

"Primitive man held spiritual beliefs," James said, looking at the sketches. "We know this from the archeological records. Artifacts like cave paintings, crude ceremonial daggers fashioned from sticks, and jewelry and idols made from bone suggest primitive man worshipped various gods. We still don't know the extent of what dogma they may have held but it's believed they were simple. Gods of fire, wind, water, and earth. They would have been very basic, primitive beliefs. You know, prayers and sacrifices to the god of earth to provide good fortune for hunting. That sort of thing."

"What would something like this mean?" Martin asked.

James shrugged. "Hard to say. The Aztecs are believed to have utilized human and animal sacrifice for a variety of purposes and gods. In many cases, warfare was the purpose for obtaining victims for sacrifices. It was considered an honor for war captives to be sacrificed to the gods. You said the heart was removed?"

"Yes," Wesley said. "Along with the eyes and his dick."

"That's odd. In Aztec culture the abdomen was split open, the heart removed and placed in a cup. The body was usually dragged down the stairs of the altar to be disposed of in other smaller ceremonies."

"Didn't other cultures practice human sacrifice?" Tracy asked.

"Yeah, but not to the extent the Aztecs did. The Egyptians, of course, but even what we see here is alien to their usual method. Even sacrifice by various Mesopotamian and Babylonian cultures differ from this." James studied the drawings intently. "Damn, I wish I had access to my library. Ancient spiritual beliefs weren't my forte, but some of the books I had contained chapters on the subject."

"Well, whatever it is they were up to, it ain't good." Wesley looked grave. "I'll be blunt in saying there's something wrong with this. Yesterday they were attacking like a bunch of wild animals and now they're more coordinated, more..."

I quickly told Wesley about our theory—the riled up monkeys in the zoo analogy that James alluded to earlier. Wesley nodded. "That's a damn good way of putting it." He looked at James. "What, were you some kind of professor or something?"

"Medieval history professor," James said. He was still studying the drawings. He looked back at Wesley. "And I concur. Something is very wrong here."

Eight

It was decided that we would drive north for another three hours, which would put us east of Napa Valley. Because the cat was now out of the bag regarding our cabin, I told Wesley about it. He agreed that we probably wouldn't be able to make it to the cabin before night fell, especially at the speed we were going (which was occasionally hampered by having to drive around stalled and crashed vehicles in the road, some quite serious). "East of Napa is pretty barren," he said. "I say we find someplace out of the way, eliminate any primitives we see, then hole up somewhere for the night. We can take turns on watch patrol."

Thanks to Wesley's trip to the base we were all armed except for James, who admitted he'd never held or fired a gun in his life and was not comfortable with one. "Fine," Wesley said, patting James on the back. "Once we get to the Sierras I'll teach you myself."

Tracy reclaimed the Kimber and Lori picked a Glock 9mm handgun while Martin got himself an M4. I reclaimed control of the Ruger. Martin also carried a Glock in a shoulder holster Wesley had brought back. Likewise, Heather had two handguns tucked into a holster she wore low on her hips. Something about her demeanor seemed to change since she'd armed herself. She seemed more confidant yet more aloof from the rest of us at the same time. It was like after arming herself she distanced herself emotionally from the rest of us.

As we drove north following Wesley's jeep, I snuck occasional peeks in the rearview mirror at her. While Heather had proven herself to be capable around guns and had joined in to protect our little clan from the primitives, something still bothered me about her. Tracy seemed to feel the same way. A few times as we headed north she glanced at me, a grave look on her face. Emily lay fast asleep in her lap and last night's outburst from Heather came back to me. Shut that fucking mongoloid half-breed brat up or I'll do it for you! A retort made in fear because the primitives heard our daughter's cries and were descending on our house? And what about Martin's feelings from last night? That Heather had seemed hostile while in his and Lori's presence? I knew what Martin was talking about, being Native American and all, especially a Native American who wore his hair near down to his ass. Yes, racism still existed in the early years of the twenty-first century, and while it was rare when I was in a Caucasian community I sometimes received curious, and on rare occasions, hostile glares. Had Heather been able to pick out my heritage from the bone structure of my face? My hair? My skin color? It was obvious that Lori and Martin were African-American and Hispanic and Martin's homosexuality would be a double strike against him. As for Tracy, she came from pure white Anglo-Saxon stock, making our daughter, Emily, mixed-race. Was that where the half-breed comment came from?

I thought about this on the drive up and couldn't help but wonder. While I was still uncomfortable with the idea of having Heather armed, I also realized that if she truly wanted to do us harm she could have done it easily half a dozen times between the time we killed the last wave of primitives and before we finally left, but she hadn't. She'd even tried to talk James into arming himself, told him she'd help teach him how to handle one of the smaller caliber pistols Wesley had brought back. If she were truly racist, as the paranoid part of me felt, she wouldn't be so friendly with James who, by my estimate based on his last name and his full beard, was obviously Jewish.

Maybe she felt better and more in control because of Wesley's presence. While I didn't know much about Wesley, I knew he was about my age and appeared to be from common white Anglo-Saxon stock judging by the brown hair and blue eyes. Maybe Heather felt better having another white person with our group. Tracy wouldn't count, of course, having spoiled her white heritage by crossbreeding with a redskin Indian.

What the hell was I thinking?

As we drove I noticed vehicles pulled over to the side of the road. In some cases, their doors were open, as if the occupants somehow made it out on foot or were dragged out. There were no signs of people—primitive or normal—anywhere. The few times we passed small towns or rest stops we had to carefully maneuver our way around stalled or crashed vehicles. The sun was still unmercifully hot and we drove with the windows rolled down to save gas with no A/C on. When we passed what had been populated areas we always heard the howls from the primitives. Occasionally we saw them peek out from inside buildings or behind other structures. A few times we were chased, and twice rocks were thrown at our vehicles, but none hit us. As before, they could never get us on foot and we never returned fire. "Don't waste the ammo," I said during the first encounter with the primitives as we passed one such town. Martin had leaned the muzzle of the M4 out the window as we drove through and he lowered it. "We're gonna need all the ammo we have for the future."

By eight o'clock we'd reached the outskirts of another small town and Wesley turned toward another highway that would take us into the Sierras. The evening was growing a little cooler, but not by much. Twice we heard yells from real, unturned people who heard our vehicle pass by. "Hey! Hey over there! Help us! We're over here!" Both times I felt like stopping but Wesley, if he heard them, never slowed down. I kept up with him, a pang of regret burning in my gut both times.

About twenty miles from that last town we came across a rest area consisting of a gas station on one side, two fast food restaurants flanking it, and a small hotel. We pulled off the side of the road at the gas station and got out of our vehicles, armed and ready.

Wesley motioned toward the hotel. "My guess is that hotel is deserted but we have to make sure. You low on gas yet?"

"We're going to need it." The SUV was hovering at a quarter tank now.

"I doubt these pumps will work," Wesley said. He was looking around the gas station. There were four other vehicles, one of them an older model van.

"Don't you think we should check it out first?" Martin asked. He was cradling the M4 like he was born with it.

"Yeah." Wesley motioned to him. "Let's go."

Martin and Wesley headed to the gas station and did their clean and sweep in under a minute. When they came back, Martin called out. "There's a couple of gas cans in here. We can siphon gas from the other vehicles."

"I've never siphoned gas from a car in my life," I muttered.

Heather heard me—she was standing a few feet to my right—and she said, "I have. I can do it."

After filling the tanks in both vehicles thanks to Heather, we did clean and sweeps of both fast food outlets and then the hotel. I found evidence that somebody had occupied the ground floor—the administrative area and kitchen—a day ago, but it was empty now. After moving the weapons and our belongings inside and securing the entrances, we made base on the second level. There was a large conference room we commandeered and it was near the stairwell that led to the bottom floor. There was a hallway that branched out from it that led to guest rooms and we found one that had been propped open with a piece of luggage. The rest of the doors were locked, and since the power was out at this place they were inaccessible due to the keycard system being kaput. "I'm going to put Emily in this room," Tracy said.

I nodded. "Good thinking." I didn't want Emily in the thick of things, should we face a late night attack.

Once everybody was inside and our supplies were upstairs, we set about getting something to eat. Emily was awake now, feeling a little better, and Tracy fed her some fruit and carrots. The rest of us had a mixture of things; fruit, vegetables, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cold Chef Boyardee spaghetti. And water. Plenty of water.

We also planned out the evening's schedule. Wesley suggested that Tracy and I stay in the one room with our daughter while the rest of them took two-hour shifts on watch patrol and slept in the conference room. I was okay with this and looked at Tracy for some kind of approval or confirmation. She looked uncertain, but nodded. Emily, oblivious to what was being decided, ate her sandwich and played with a doll we'd brought along for her.

The watch schedule was as follows: Martin would go first, followed by Lori, Heather, Wesley, then James and I would take the five to seven a.m. shift. We all agreed to this.

When we were finished eating, Tracy picked up Emily and took her to the room we'd be sleeping in. I told her I'd be in a little later and watched them leave. They left the door propped open so I could get in. Everybody else was hunkering down in the conference room, picking out a spot, laying out blankets and pillows. It was Martin's shift and he was sitting outside the conference room near the stairway. "It might be a good idea to do periodic sweeps of all four corners from this floor," he suggested.

"I agree," Wesley said.

Nobody was really tired yet, so we kind of huddled on the floor near the entrance to the conference room. Lori asked me if Emily was okay and I told her she was fine. Lori had taken a real shine to her and that made me feel good.

We started talking about our current situation.

And the primitives.

"I could tell something wasn't right as early as last week," Wesley said. He was sitting cross-legged in the hall. The only light that came in the building was from a large window that overlooked the stairway. "I remember even as I was at Camp Pendleton and making plans for the conference that things just didn't feel right. And then I started noticing things around me. Like I drove by an all out no-holds-barred street fight four days ago that was happening right on the sidewalk in Seal Beach. The one guy just kept yelling normal stuff, you know, 'Get off me, motherfucker, get the hell off me!' The other guy, he was relentless, like a wild animal, and he was just screaming this gibberish. I didn't think about that incident again until yesterday when everything just collapsed."

I told the group about what I saw in Hollywood, that bizarre homeless person, and as I recounted this my mind flashed back on the picture Wesley drew and—

— the graffiti that dotted the wall—

I stopped, the realization hitting me.

"Did any of you see anything like...well, like those drawings Wesley showed us earlier?" I asked, looking around at the group. "Like drawn on a wall or on the ground or something?"

Martin and Lori shook their heads, as did Heather and James. Only Wesley nodded. "Yeah, you know, now that you mention it I did see something similar in Zuma Beach last week. It was kinda like that...that thing that was on the wall at Edwards...only...well, it was incomplete...it didn't have wings, and it was on a wall along the beach facing the ocean. Didn't really pay attention to it at first."

"I didn't see shit like that," Martin said.

"What day did you see that fight?" I asked Wesley.

He shrugged. "Last Thursday?"

That was the day I saw the weird homeless guy and the wall drawing in Hollywood. I looked around at the others. "Any of you remember anything weird and out of the ordinary from a few days to a week ago?"

James looked perplexed. "I remember walking across the quad after one of my classes and a student came running by making hooting sounds. He sounded like a wild monkey. Ran right by me. Couple of other kids called out to him but he kept going. I figured it was some kind of weird fraternity initiation rite."

Lori suddenly looked ill. "I remember something."

We all turned toward her.

"I was watching the news Saturday, maybe Sunday. There was some story about a killing in Wisconsin, in some big city in the projects. A gang of kids had mauled this other kid, just beat him to death. The reporter said it was the worst thing he'd ever seen. They basically tore this kid apart with their bare hands."

"I remember seeing that, too," Heather said.

Lori continued. "They said it was like these kids turned into animals. Anyway, the camera flashed on the murder scene for like five seconds. And...that thing..." she glanced at Wesley. "...that thing you drew, or something like it, was drawn on an alleyway wall. I only saw it for a few seconds but..."

"What the hell does it mean, though?" I was sitting with my back against the wall.

Wesley was silent as everybody started talking at once, wondering aloud to each other what those strange symbols meant, if there were a connection. I noticed Wesley was wrestling with something, trying to find a way to bring a new topic into the discussion. I think Martin noticed, too, because he nodded at Wesley.

"Remember a few weeks ago when we had those talks with Iran?" Wesley said.

"Yeah, I remember that!" James exclaimed. He shifted into a sitting position on the floor. "That was all over the news for like a week and then suddenly it was gone. It didn't make sense to me."

"Weren't they saying they wanted to nuke us?" Lori asked.

"We confirmed they had nuclear weapons," Wesley said. "Our intelligence found out they were planning to strike Israel, Great Britain, and the US East Coast. That's what was all over the news. We had diplomats trying to appeal to their government and deter things and...well...shit, I might as well tell you what I know, and that ain't much."

"Nobody's around to reprimand you anyway," I reminded him.

Wesley nodded. "Yeah. Anyway..." He looked afraid to tell us, disgusted perhaps, and I wondered if whatever it was had something to do with what happened. "I...we were told that the Iranian threat was going to be dealt with, and it was going to be done in a way that would be under the radar. No big explosions, no massive troops being sent in, no big media sensation. In fact, the only media sensation that was expected and planned for was thought out over a year ago. And the idea was when it happened the American people, if not the world, would rally to help the people of Iran. There would be no finger pointing. It would be seen as a natural disaster, like the tsunami that hit Indonesia and Thailand in late '04. We had the best scientists already on hand to help explain things and they would have the support of other leading scientists, who had no idea what would really happen."

"So what the fuck is it?" I said.

Wesley paused for a moment, then took the plunge. "Human DNA is a very complex thing but it can be manipulated. It can be done with the right chemicals, and it doesn't matter if those chemicals are airborne or whatever...it can be done."

James Goodman seemed to know what Wesley was getting at. "This has something to do with that discovery about the Neanderthal gene, doesn't it?"

Wesley nodded. His voice was a low whisper, tinged with shame. "Yes. It does."

Heather and Martin looked confused. James looked like he'd been sucker-punched. I know how he felt. I think I looked the same way.

"How the hell is that possible?" James exclaimed.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Heather asked, the frustration obvious in her voice.

"Experiments were done on select US prisoners, then terrorist suspects from Guantanamo Bay," Wesley said. "I don't even know what the code name for the project was, but somehow word got out. It was like an underground rumor within the rank and file, almost like military urban legend and we didn't say anything about it to anyone outside the military. But we talked about it enough among ourselves that there seemed to be some semblance of truth to the rumors."

"What were those rumors?" Martin asked.

"That we'd found a chemical compound that could alter our DNA to activate the Neanderthal strain that's believed to be carried by us. And that this activation would, in essence, flip things so to speak. It would rewire us completely, alter the coding so that millions of years of breeding and refining of our DNA structure would be rolled back and reduced to our most primitive state."

"And why would our lovely government want to do this?" Lori asked. She looked and sounded pissed off.

"You know that saying, 'We're gonna bomb 'em back to the Stone Age'?" Wesley explained. "Somebody in our government took that to heart and authorized that very sentiment when it was learned this DNA structure could be altered. Iran was a threat, North Korea was a threat, Syria was a threat. And China? They weren't an immediate threat but they were building up their military like we've never seen any country do since Germany and Japan prior to World War II. All our enemies making those moves, it was like the years leading up to World War II all over again. It was decided early on that we weren't going to go down that road again, that we would not allow the world to go through another catastrophic war and the stakes were higher this time due to nuclear technology. There was a very likely chance these countries were ready to strike, and with our current troops stretched so thin..." Wesley looked grim. I think we all realized what could have happened in such a scenario. The United States would have been witness to the first enemy invasion by land since the War of 1812, not counting the sneak attacks on Pearl Harbor and Alaska by the Japanese in World War II, and the attack by Al Qaeda on American soil on September 11, 2001. "So...it was decided that if they were bombed back to the Stone Age, so to speak, they would be reverted...they would no longer be a threat. And the phenomenon would be explained by government scientists as...something in the water system or something. The Neanderthal DNA strand would be made public at that time and some form of an explanation would be brought up and—"

"So we did this!" I felt my voice rise. "We did this to ourselves?"

"I remember seeing something like this last week on TV," Martin said grimly. "Something about the riots in Iran right before all the nuclear saber rattling ceased."

"I remember that, too," James said. He still looked horrified at the implications that were hitting all of us.

"And you knew about it?" Lori looked like she wanted to leap across the room and throttle Wesley.

"It was nothing but rumors!" Wesley stated, his features and tone stern. "Rumors! When you're a career military person you hear a lot of crazy shit. Detention camps being built by Halliburton for the confinement of US citizens critical of whatever administration is in the White House...Black Hawk helicopters doing surveillance on American citizens...the assassination of key political figures throughout the world...rumors of covert biological warfare. Most of it is pure bullshit, but—"

"But obviously some of it's real!" Lori snapped. "Real enough to kill millions of people and turn the rest of them into a mass of slavering wild animals!"

"Even if I knew in my heart what I was hearing had been true, there would have been no way to stop it," Wesley said. He sounded like he was on the verge of throwing himself at our mercy. He sounded like he was at fault. Guilt lined his face, tinged his voice. "The rumor was this was top secret, that a couple of military people had already, quote unquote, disappeared because of it."

"People were taken out?" Martin asked.

"Yes," Wesley answered. "Word gets out about that kind of thing. Again, it all added to what was going around. Those that knew anything and tried to do something to stop it were stopped themselves. Permanently."

"How would this...chemical, or whatever...be spread?" James asked.

"I heard it was airborne," Wesley said. "That a good quantity of it was manufactured in a government lab somewhere on the East Coast and it would have been dropped from a bird flying over Iranian airspace."

"So all they need to do is breathe it in and it changes you," Martin said.

"Why didn't it affect us though?" I asked. I was having a hard time accepting this. My mind was racing. "Are we somehow immune? And if so, why did it affect my son and not the rest of my family? Hell, why didn't it affect me?"

"I don't know," Wesley said. He looked ashamed.

Now I was remembering something from the news. "Wait a minute. Wasn't there something in the news a week ago when this was going on...about a shootout at some lab?"

Wesley looked like he'd suddenly gone pale. "Jesus, you're right. That was Donnelly Labs, in Massachusetts. They were a government lab."

"It was a security guard who was killed," I said, remembering now. "There was a big clampdown...because they thought some chemicals had leaked or something, but that turned out to be false."

Wesley was rubbing his face. He looked sick. "You didn't hear what I heard. The press mentioned the security guard but they didn't mention the missing scientist."

"What missing scientist?" Lori asked.

"I don't know his name," Wesley said. "He wasn't a top guy or anything. Still, he supposedly had All Clearance access. If the chemical was created in that lab and this missing scientist knew about it and...well, if he had political or personal issues of his own—"

"You think this missing scientist was responsible for this wider outbreak?" I asked.

"He wasn't seen again," Wesley said. "And I know that a very large effort was made by the CIA and the military to capture him. He went missing a day after the first of these...these Stone Age bombs were dropped over Iran."

"Was any of that chemical missing?" I asked.

"I don't know, but I suppose it was," Wesley said. "In fact, I'm sure it was, the way they were reacting to this guy's disappearance."

"And that would have given him enough time to travel widely to spread this shit," Martin said.

"Not on any commercial flights," I added. "Not if he was wanted. He could have easily passed the material on to a third party who spread it."

"Or to several people."

We all turned toward the hallway. Tracy was standing there, hands on her hips. How long she'd been listening to our conversation, I had no idea.

"So you're saying our government caused this," Tracy said. She sat down cross-legged next to me and took my hand.

"I'm afraid they did," Wesley said. He shook his head.

"Why didn't it affect us, then?" Heather asked.

"I don't know." Wesley wasn't looking at any of us. He bowed his head, looking ashamed.

"You don't know? Didn't they find this out when they were experimenting on prisoners and shit?"

"You're grilling me as if you blame me for this. I told you, I only heard rumors about it and I didn't believe them myself until just two days ago!"

"Fuck!" Heather turned away. "This is so fucked up."

"I find it hard to believe our government would risk such a thing," James said. "I mean...yes, Iran was a threat. So were North Korea and Syria and a good portion of the Islamic Middle East for that matter. But to utilize biological weapons was a strict violation of—"

"Should've carpet bombed those goddamned towel-head fucks instead of doing this shit," Heather muttered.

"Excuse me?" Lori looked at Heather as if she were about to take the younger girl down a notch.

Heather glowered at Lori. "Excuse you, what?"

"There's no need to get huffy with me, young lady," Lori stated. She rose to her feet, clearly irritated. While I could empathize with Heather's anger, she'd pushed too many buttons in the past day and I was getting tired of her attitude too.

"I'm not getting huffy, I'm just speaking my mind!"

"There's no sense arguing about this," Wesley sighed. He stood up and began pacing. "Heather's right. We had the strongest military in the world and we were too worried about political correctness in dealing with our enemies. Our occupation of Iraq was a joke. Our leadership lacked the sensitivity and the knowledge to effectively deal with our enemies."

"So we should've just carpet bombed Iraq when we went in?" James asked. "Kill millions of innocent people?"

"If you ask me, we shouldn't have gone in, but if we were going to go in at all, we should have done it right."

"And killed millions of innocent people?"

"The Israelis surely never thought of that when they invaded Lebanon in the weeks before all this shit happened," Wesley countered. "They warned the civilian population, then proceeded to strike. That's what we should have done. Israel's response has been correct in my book. Meet force with greater force."

"What bullshit!" Tracy muttered.

I could sense this discussion turning into an all-out political argument and I stood up and raised my hands. "We're not getting anywhere by arguing—"

While I was trying to stop what I perceived to be a full-fledged argument, Heather said something to Wesley. I didn't hear it, but Martin told me about it a few days later.

Heather had gotten to her feet, as did the rest of us, and what she said was directed at Wesley. I was well within earshot but didn't hear it—I was trying to calm Tracy down.

What Heather said to Wesley was this: "So you supported that Zionist occupation?"

Wesley's response was straight to the point. "I supported Israel's right to defend itself."

Lori Smith, who heard the exchange too, was the first among us who got into that fray. "What the hell is your problem, girl?"

Heather turned to her. This part I did see, and if I was trying to convince myself that this kid, this throwback to the 1980's punk look, was really just a misunderstood kid, one who was going through problems before the world as we knew it ended, then I was proven wrong at that point. What I saw in her eyes was pure hatred.

"You're my problem," Heather said. "You and every other traitor to my race for polluting the world with your shit!"

Tracy reacted like she was slapped in the face. "What?" She was looking at Heather as if the girl was some entirely new subspecies of human.

"Yeah, that means you too," Heather snapped at Tracy. "And your half-breed mutant kid. Women who fuck animals like your husband are disgusting."

I have to admit I was in shock when she said this. Hard to believe that at a time like this, with civilization pretty much kaput, that issues like race would be a major problem. Before all this happened I still found it hard to believe that somebody could hate me for the color of my skin.

"You little shit!" Tracy muttered. I think she was so surprised at the sudden outburst that it left her unprepared mentally.

Lori Smith fixed Heather with that patented don't fuck with me glare. "So. It looks like I was right about you."

Heather sneered at her. "Like I give a shit what a nigger like you thinks about me."

"Oh, you did not say that!" At the mention of that awful word, the expression on Lori's face was more than obvious. She was boiling mad.

"Oh but I did!" Heather sneered back. "Nigger!"

I've never seen a fist fly so fast before in my life. Lori unleashed a straight right that smacked into Heather's face with such force that it lifted her off her feet. The punch sent her sprawling to the floor. While everything happened so fast, for a few moments it all seemed like it was happening in slow motion.

After Lori slugged Heather she loomed over the younger girl, fists raised, screaming, "I'm gonna fuck you up, bitch!"

Heather looked stunned. Blood gushed from her flattened nose—obviously broken from that single punch. Her face screwed into a rictus of anger and just as she started to get up, Lori dove forward, left hand grappling Heather's throat, and slammed three more punches into Heather's face, accenting each punch with a "Fucking bitch, nobody talks to me that way!"

It took James and Martin to drag Lori off Heather. I've only been in a handful of fights in my life, and four well-placed blows to the face would have been the end of it for me. For Heather, they seemed to wake something up that had lain dormant inside her. Her face was bathed in blood and her left eye was beginning to swell shut. I have no doubt she would have thrown herself at Lori if Wesley hadn't locked his arm around her throat and pulled her back. "Get off me, goddammit!" She yelled. "I'm gonna fuck her up!"

"Shut. The fuck. Up!" Wesley growled at her. He hauled Heather back, and James and Martin held Lori back while something inside of me woke up and insisted on taking charge.

I directed my gaze at Heather, whose attention was wholly centered on Lori. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I knew we should've dumped this bitch off when we got out of LA," Tracy muttered behind me.

Meanwhile, Wesley was trying to calm Heather down. He had a firm grip on her. No way was she going anywhere. "I don't have time for your petty racist attitude, little girl. You understand me?"

"And I don't have time for your shit!" Heather growled. "Get your fucking hands off me!"

"Just get her out of here!" Tracy snapped at Wesley.

Wesley started to haul Heather toward the staircase when James said, "Hold on, hold on, we can't just throw her out of here!"

Wesley stopped. Heather wasn't struggling in his grasp anymore. She was panting from the exertion of her struggle and her eyes gleamed with anger and hatred. Lori had herself under control now but she stood on the other side of the hallway near the conference room, James and Martin standing on either side of her. I have no doubt that if Lori and Heather decided to duke it out who would emerge the winner.

"What do you mean we can't throw her out?" Wesley asked. He was looking at James as if he'd lost his mind.

"Fuck this, I'll fucking go, you don't need to throw me out." Heather struggled in Wesley's grip again. "Let go of me, I'll leave, okay? I don't need you assholes anyway!"

Wesley reluctantly released his grip. Heather tore away from him. She stood by the landing that overlooked the bottom floor of the hotel and glared at us. "Fuckin' nigger loving kikes."

Martin grabbed Lori as she launched herself at Heather again. "You little bitch!"

Heather was growing cockier in her attitude. She took a step forward, shoulders thrust back, pumped up in fight mode. With her mad gaze amid her blood streaked, swollen face, she looked insane. "Yeah, I called you a nigger, and I'm calling you all what you are. You're all nigger-loving and Jew-loving motherfuckers who started all this and you—" Heather glared at Tracy, "should be ashamed of yourself for disgracing your white race by breeding with that redskin asshole boyfriend of yours."

"He's my husband you little shit," Tracy said. There was fury and venom in her tone and posture now. "And my only regret now is that I didn't kill you last night when you made those disgusting comments about my daughter."

Heather hawked up a wad of phlegm from her lungs and spat it at her. Tracy didn't flinch. The loogie didn't even hit her. "That's what I think of your daughter."

I wasn't even aware that I'd taken a step forward, wasn't even aware I was going to smack this kid silly, but James clamped his hand on my arm and held me back. "Dave, don't," he said. "It's not worth it."

"You want to leave, fine," I told Heather through gritted teeth. "Leave. Get the fuck out of here."

Heather was about to say something when Wesley grabbed her around the throat again. Heather began to struggle. Somehow, with one hand locked around her throat, he snaked his other hand down to her waistband and pulled out the handgun she'd stashed there. He handed it to Martin, who quickly took it. "Let me go!" Heather yelled. "Fucking pricks, give that back!"

Wesley released her grip. "You can go, but you aren't going armed."

"The fuck I'm not!"

"Heather." James stepped forward. There was something in his posture that suggested he was trying to be the peacemaker. "Whatever your problem is, we can work it out—"

Heather snarled at him. "Are you deaf? I don't like Jews, niggers, faggots and mutant wetback Indians, okay? And I fucking hate bitches like her," She pointed at Tracy, who looked ready to attack her, "for polluting my race."

"You really believe that shit?" James asked.

Heather didn't answer him directly. She was so angry, was so worked up, that it was hard to tell if the tears and emotion she was displaying were out of frustration or from the pain of her battered face. "You fucking people started this shit and look what happened! My family is dead! My parents, my brother, my friends are all dead."

"Welcome to the club," Lori muttered.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Wesley said, matter-of-factly. He'd released his grip on Heather and stood at sentry duty by the stairs. "We've all lost loved ones. However, we don't have use for whatever wrong-headed views you may have been poisoned with before—"

"You believe that Zionist bullshit, too?" Heather asked him. "And you're white?"

"My ass is as white as they come," Wesley said. "And I don't tolerate that Nazi white racist bullshit and people like you that spout it."

"Well fuck you! My family was better than all of you! We were Aryan Nation and proud of it." She was ranting at all of us now. "All of you can fuck off and die!"

From down the hall, Emily began to cry. "Mommeee!"

"I'm getting out of here." Heather paused, surveyed the room once more with that hateful glare, and then settled her gaze on Tracy. "My only regret is I didn't shut that fucking brat of yours up permanently last night."

"I've had enough of this horseshit," Wesley said, and then he drew his handgun, placed the barrel against Heather's skull and pulled the trigger.

She went down in a spray of blood, bone and exploding brain matter that looked like red mush. I was so surprised by Wesley's move that I yelped. Judging by the other excited sounds around me, Wesley's actions shocked everybody else as well. I thought I heard James shout, "What the hell are you doing?"

As Heather's body fell to the floor and began twitching in its final death throes, Wesley holstered his weapon amid our various shouts of surprise, everything from "what the fuck?" to "are you out of your mind?" to "shit!" I heard Emily down the hall wail louder, "Mommeee! Mommeeee!" and Tracy ran toward the room. My mind was still trying to process what was happening when Wesley gestured down the stairs. "We're gonna have company in a minute."

Martin picked up on what he was getting at and darted past him, heading down the stairs, the M4 cradled in his hands. James Goodman was getting angry. He was standing at the center of the landing, fists clenched. "What the hell was that all about? You just killed her!"

"And she would have killed us if we'd let her walk out of here," Wesley said. Gone was the calm, cool, and calculated tone and demeanor we'd met earlier that day. In its place was one of control. His expression was harsh, grim. "Believe me, I've seen her kind before. She was a weak link and she needed to be eliminated permanently."

"You know, that kind of thinking is the same kind of fucked-up shit people like her spouted!" James was clearly angry. He was practically standing nose to nose with Wesley. "Racism is racism no matter if you're a Nazi Ku Klux Klansman or a black—"

"And I'm telling you she was a weak link!" Wesley roared. Veins bulged from his forehead. "She had to be eliminated! The world has changed Dr. Professor whatever-you-are. So pull your head out of your ass and wake up! Her attitude was a liability to our survival. If she hadn't shown her true colors now, she could have acted on her feelings at another time and killed you!"

"But she..." James sputtered. I could tell this was happening too fast for him to process. Eight hours ago he was standing at the side of the road with Heather, talking with her, joking around with her. She was teaching him how to use a gun. It was obvious James had no way of understanding how Heather could harbor such racist feelings against people of his own kind—Jews—when she'd been pleasant enough to him on the surface hours before.

"But she was nice to me!'" Wesley jeered. "Big fucking deal! People who meet David Duke say he's a wonderful guy too, but he's from the same cloth. She would have waited until you were asleep and then slit your throat without blinking an eye, and she would have done the same to Lori and Martin and probably David if she had the chance. And she obviously had it in for Tracy for what she saw as a perceived racial betrayal. Trust me, we're better off without her."

James had no comeback for that. He stood there, still stunned by what had happened.

Wesley's head snapped toward the windows and now I was hearing what he was. Howls. From outside.

"Shit, I was hoping this wouldn't happen," he muttered. He drew his weapon. "They're onto us now." He glared at James. "Thanks to your little girlfriend, the primitives are on their way."

Nine

We armed ourselves quickly and waited, listening to the howls outside.

From downstairs, Martin called up. "I hear them, but they sound far away. I don't see anything yet."

"Then we need to stay down and stay quiet," Wesley said.

And we did. While Wesley ordered Lori to cover the staircase, he darted downstairs to cover the rear of the building. I headed down the hall to the lone open bedroom to make sure Tracy and Emily were okay. Emily wasn't screaming anymore, but she was clearly upset and crying. Tracy was holding her on the bed, rocking her. "We'll be okay," I said quickly. "Just try to keep her calm."

She nodded, and I headed back to the top of the staircase and stood well away from Heather's corpse. Lori stood at the top of the stairs, holding her gun firmly in both hands, a look of expectant waiting on her features.

The howls and gibberish continued. They sounded like they were coming from far away and all directions. They'd probably heard the gunshot, some of them might have heard the arguing as well, and they'd started toward the sound, hoping to do whatever it is they do with normals—kill us and eat us, sacrifice us to their strange god, whatever. I caught a glimpse of Martin hiding in a darkened corner near the lobby doors poised in silence and the air seemed suddenly still as we waited with bated breath to see if they would find us. James had retreated to the conference room and was pacing around. He wasn't saying anything, but I could tell he was upset. I was upset too, but not for the same reasons. Wesley's simple act of killing Heather had shattered James, had destroyed all chance of hope and decency he was still desperately clinging to. Part of me understood that, but another part of me was glad Wesley had taken Heather out. That part of me understood his reasons, his motivations, and I think everybody else understood and approved of his decision. There was only one thing that bothered me.

Suppose Wesley was hiding something? Suppose his explanation for what he did was a smokescreen to cover up his real reason for killing Heather?

Suppose he'd killed her for the pleasure of it?

I thought about this as the sounds continued outside. With the exception of Tracy and Emily, I didn't really know the rest of the clan. I had impressions, sure, but impressions could be proven wrong. What did I really know about Wesley Smitts? The display of emotion over the loss of his family notwithstanding, how much did we really know about him? Suppose that had been an act to catch us off guard?

I couldn't think this way. Not now. I had to rely on my gut instinct. And my gut instinct told me Wesley had done the right thing.

I felt myself tense up as they came closer to the building. I couldn't hear Emily's cries anymore, and there was complete silence within the hotel as we all hunkered down, vigilant to what was going on outside. I listened as I heard their fumbling footsteps circle the building, heard hands slap at the windows—Martin later told me one peered inside the lobby, unaware of him hiding in the shadows. I heard them outside near the vehicles and I heard some hoots and hollers and then the sounds began to recede. Some continued east. The rest simply headed back where they came from.

The danger had passed. For now.

Wesley stole upstairs, light-footed and stealthy. "We need to get this out of here," he said, indicating Heather's corpse. He rested his rifle against the wall, bent over Heather and looked at me. "We can put it in the kitchen. Can you take its feet?"

And without thinking I did as he asked. And as I helped Wesley carry Heather downstairs and stowed her in a corner of the kitchen, I wondered again if we did the right thing in letting Wesley into our group. I believed he did the right thing in killing Heather. A week ago if she'd threatened to kill my daughter I would have resorted to a more legal remedy. Now, with civilization completely gone, there were no police, or courts, or judges to maintain law and order. We had to fend for ourselves. No matter how much one could philosophize about it, killing Heather was a necessity. She would have done something murderous, something awful, and simple banishment from our group would have been out of the question. She would have followed us and waited for the right moment to strike. Killing her eliminated the problem.

Still, it bothered me that Wesley had made that choice so quickly.

And that her killing didn't seem to bother him.

But it was the way he referred to disposing of her body that really bothered me. We need to get rid of it, not we need to get rid of her.

As if she were nothing.

Now is not the time for moral debate on this, I thought as I grabbed Heather's legs.

* * *

We left the hotel the next morning.

Wesley and Martin followed us in his Jeep as I drove the SUV and began our ascent into the Sierras. Travel was pretty much as it had been the day before and we only saw a handful of primitives. We were beginning to see more dead bodies, though, and I wondered if there were any normals like us in this area. If there were, we didn't come across any.

We picked our way carefully around stalled vehicles and I wondered aloud if we would be forced to abandon our vehicles once we started up the mountain passes. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, I guess," Lori said. She'd remained quiet through most of the morning, and the few times I saw her through the rearview mirror she looked troubled. I wondered if she was thinking the same thing I was, about Wesley's sudden move to kill Heather without batting an eye. I have a feeling that if Lori had killed Heather herself in that fight, she would not have acted so calm and cool about it afterward despite the racial abuse she suffered at the younger girl's hands.

The one thing that had not changed, though, was the presence. That eerie feeling we all felt yesterday.

That something was watching us. Or something was there...waiting.

Wesley mentioned it as we were packing the last of our things in the vehicles. "It's stronger this morning," he said to me.

"Yeah." I'd felt it that morning over our quick breakfast of cereal and milk in the dining room.

Even Emily felt it. She was sitting between Tracy and me at breakfast and at one point asked us, "Is it okay to go outside? Those wild people aren't there but..."

"But what, honey?" Tracy asked.

"Something else is." Emily looked afraid. She had a calm knowledge in her four-year-old features that spoke volumes of truth. Even she felt it.

Whatever it was, we could neither hear it, see it, nor smell it. Yet despite that there was this brooding sense of something. While faint, it was definitely stronger today than it had been yesterday. It almost felt like being in a room, hiding from somebody, and having the person you were hiding from enter the room and look around but not find you. That's about the closest I can describe it.

We came across a narrow part of the road that was partially blocked by several crashed vehicles. On one side was a sheer rock wall. On the other, about five feet of gravel and beyond that a deep pit that would plunge us over two hundred feet to land atop some tall Redwood if we weren't careful. After stopping the vehicles in the middle of the road and surveying our options, it was decided to move one of the vehicles as far against the rocky wall as possible and have one of us guide each vehicle between the wreckage and the side of the road.

Emily saw the drawing on the rock wall on the other side of one of the crashed vehicles. She pointed at it. "Look at that!"

It was an exact replica of the drawing Wesley showed us, the one he'd seen etched on a wall at Edwards. It was big, at least fifteen by seven feet, and it was hard to tell what it was drawn in. Blood by the look of it. Tracy saw it too, and was looking around, probably to see if there were dead bodies lying in the road when we heard Martin cry out a warning.

James had stepped outside to guide the vehicles through the pass. I slipped through pretty easily and was pulling over to the side of the road to wait for Wesley when we heard Martin, who'd stepped out of our SUV earlier to help in the effort. I looked over at James and that's when I saw a rock smash into his head and bring him down.

"Primitives!" Martin shouted.

Their howls came next. A barrage of rocks was hurled like missiles. They hit the SUV's roof and hood and one smashed against the right rear window. Emily screamed in the front seat.

I had my Sig armed and ready. A rock crashed onto the hood of the SUV in front of me. I put the SUV in Park and looked around, trying to find their position while Tracy screamed and tried to wrap Emily up in her embrace to protect her. "They're ambushing us!"

From behind us, Wesley shouted: "Kill them!"

I heard gunfire erupt. And then I saw over a dozen primitives swarm the area we were in, yelling and hooting madly. They were throwing rocks. Some bore thick, stout branches. Others bore heavy chunks of wood and baseball bats. One was carrying what looked like a makeshift spear. The closest one was seventy-five yards away and they were sprinting toward us quickly.

I didn't even think. I just pointed the Sig and sprayed bullets. I hit two that were close to me as I ducked out of the driver's side of the SUV and made my way to the rear of the vehicle. Rocks crashed down around me, some coming dangerously close. As I reached the rear of the SUV, I got it open just as I ran out of bullets. I pulled out one of the M4s we'd loaded into the vehicle earlier, flipped off the safety, aimed and let loose with another barrage of gunfire, mowing down another wave of primitives that were making their way down the rocky embankment.

Amid all the yells and shouts I didn't discern Lori's cry of pain. At some point there was a lull in the fighting and I saw that she'd run out of bullets and was grappling with one of the primitives. He held a rock over her head. I could see the muscles of her arms tense as she held him off. He might have been a biker in some past life. Most of his biker garb was missing and what remained hung in tattered remnants around his hulking figure. He looked like a caveman, his eyes wild, face streaked with blood and grit, his long hair dirty and matted. He leaned toward her, mouth open, ready to rip her throat out with his teeth. "Aooarrragha maawwwooo!"

I rushed over and brought the stock of the M4 down on the side of his head. The primitive staggered and Lori sprinted away. That gave me enough of a target to cut him in half with half a dozen shots.

And then as suddenly as we were attacked, it was over.

My ears rang with gunfire, but even through the humming I could hear more howls far off in the hills. I saw Wesley bend over James's crumpled form. "Shit, he's dead."

Adrenaline was surging through my system. I felt like we were sitting ducks.

Wesley got up and dragged James over to the side of the road. "We have to get out of here," he said. He looked stressed. Lori looked scared for the first time since I met her. She was standing by Martin, who still bore the look of surprise I'm sure we all had from being attacked so suddenly. She leaned her head against his shoulder and he put one big arm around her, cradling his M4 in the other. His eyes met mine, conveying a simple message: it's getting stronger.

He was right. That presence was stronger somehow. It felt like something leaden, something tangible and wholly malevolent, like some dark giant was casting its gaze over the landscape, searching us out.

Lori was breaking down emotionally for the first time since our ordeal began. "Oh my God, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead!"

Wesley was back in his vehicle, moving it through the narrow pass. He made it through, and the howls in the valley below grew louder. The primitives were getting closer.

"We've got to go," I said. I headed back to the SUV where Tracy was trying to calm Emily down. I slipped into the driver's seat. We had another forty miles to go until we reached the cabin. "Come on, let's get out of here!" I shouted to Martin. Somehow he got Lori into the back of the vehicle and we set off again.

And God help us, we left poor James Goodman back there. Alone. Discarded. For some reason I felt terrible about that. I hadn't felt bad about leaving Heather's body back at the hotel, but I felt bad about leaving James without doing something, honoring him in some way. Maybe it was because I knew he was a decent human being, one who rose above the bitter hatreds we all harbor inside ourselves and tried to see the good in everybody, no matter how angry and hateful they were—like Heather. To me, James struck me as one of those wise and forgiving leaders of the Simon Wiesenthal Center who accepted former racist skinheads and forgave them for their past sins. In other words, James had seen hope in Heather when the rest of us hadn't.

But there was no time now to properly mourn James Goodman. Now we had to get the hell out of there and put as much distance between the primitives and us as possible.

Ten

We heard the primitives on our ascent into the Sierra Mountains. Who knows how many people in the area they killed outright, but the California Sierras were not densely populated to begin with. My guess was that there were thousands of primitives roaming the densely populated remote forests and mountains of Northern California. I had a feeling as we headed closer to my family's cabin that some roving packs of primitives would eventually stumble upon us and when they did, what then? Ammunition could only last for so long. How long would it take before endless attacks from wave after wave of primitives depleted our ammunition and we were forced to engage in hand to hand combat? Sure, we could probably pick up more ammunition from some discarded gun store—that shit was just lying around now waiting for anybody to pick it up. What bothered Wesley and Martin more than the primitive threat was the threat from people like us, those who were immune to whatever chemical agent the government had introduced into the atmosphere that turned people. Eventually societies would form and many would be run by dictators, power-crazed individuals who would roam the countryside like the Mongols and Goths of old to slay and rape and pillage other settlements, enslaving those they didn't kill.

The primitives would run the show, of course. They would form their own clans, their own societies.

And they would have their god to guide them.

We saw more of the drawings etched into trees and stones as we drove up the winding paths of the mountains. I was awestruck by their simplicity, by how similar each one was to the others. How all the primitives could accurately portray this thing—their god, which I was calling it now—when they had great distance between them told me that they were either on the same spiritual wavelength or they'd seen this thing, either in their dreams or for real. They were tuned into it somehow, and their drawings were some sort of praise, some form of primitive worship.

I thought of the soldier sacrificed to this strange god, the one Wesley reported seeing, and wondered how many others like him had been similarly staked and dressed out on some makeshift altar, butchered to a god unknown to modern anthropology.

These were the things I was thinking as we made our way up the winding mountain pass toward my family's cabin.

I had no idea that there would be a clan of primitives at the cabin when we arrived.

I had traveled only halfway up the private dirt road that led to the secluded cabin when I saw movement in the trees ahead. I stopped the vehicle and that's when we heard the running feet and howls. I could see the cabin through the trees and made out more than two-dozen primitives. They must have made my cabin their home—after all, it would have been empty—and they were now running toward us, shouting war cries, bearing sticks and stones and other makeshift weapons.

I stopped the vehicle, told Tracy to protect Emily, and brought the M4 out. Martin leaped into action, as did Wesley. We met the primitives' onslaught with twenty-first century technology and weaponry, and when it was over and the primitives were all dead, and others who'd been hanging near the cabin having fled, we piled back in the vehicles and resumed our drive to the cabin.

Where we saw that they'd painted a crude caricature of that strange god-like thing on the south wall of the cabin.

And that they'd built some sort of altar on my front porch.

An altar consisting of another drawing on the front door, and what looked like more of those weird geometrical drawings on the porch floor...and two severed human heads that sat facing each other on opposite ends of the porch stoop.

"Jesus," Lori said as I pulled the SUV up to the porch.

The presence was stronger here. With it was a feeling of dread. I thought we'd be safe here. Thought we would have refuge from the primitives, away from the major urban areas where population had been more plentiful.

I was wrong.

"Shit!" I muttered. I was so frustrated, so angry, so scared, I wanted to cry.

"I don't want to stay here," Tracy said. Her eyes were wide with fright. Emily cowered against her mother.

I know how she felt. Our retreat, our family hideaway, felt tainted now. The primitives and their strange god had marked it. I knew if we stayed here even overnight that the primitives would zero in on us. We could continue to fight them off with our superior weaponry but they would continue to come until they won.

We stayed long enough to get more food—canned and dry goods from the pantry, and then we set off again. We left just in time. A large pack of primitives was coming down the mountain. We could hear their collective war cries as we drove away.

Somehow we made it back onto the main road. We stocked up on more ammo at a sporting good's store in town. Martin and Lori stood guard outside while Wesley and I went in and nabbed a dozen rifles and handguns and several thousand rounds of ammunition. Wesley also snagged a couple of crossbows and arrows and some basic camping equipment—a Bunsen grill, various knives, some canteens, sleeping bags, tents. We piled this material in the back of the SUV and the Jeep, and by the time we peeled away the roar of the primitives was resounding through the valley. I was surprised there weren't any remaining in town when we drove in. Perhaps they'd instinctively left the area, zeroing in on some internal compass, heading on their own mass exodus somewhere only they were being called to.

We made it down the other end of the mountains and made camp that night in an empty Mexican restaurant on the outskirts of a small town called Grass Valley. It was there, with my laptop sitting on one of the tables in the dining area late on that first evening, that I began this narrative. It was done not only to chronicle the beginning stages of what I've come to call the end of human society, but to eventually document for future ages our struggles as we lurch toward the unknown darkness into the early years of the twenty-first century and the third millennium.

We'd killed over two hundred primitives in those first few days, and we realized that we would be in constant danger if we were in what were once heavily populated areas. Prior to the collapse of civilization, the least populated areas in North America were the upper west—the areas of Wyoming, Montana, and the Dakotas, along with Alberta, Canada. Wesley had been to that part of the country once and suggested we make that area our goal. "It's still early enough in the summer that we could find a large house or a cabin somewhere and lay claim to it," he told us that night. "We could get firewood and make preparations to hold us over for the winter. I don't know if the primitives will have to relearn how to make fire, but if they have to then I can guarantee that the few that are up there will freeze to death when the first winter chill hits."

"And what about us?" Tracy asked. She was cradling a sleeping Emily in her arms. "What if we can't make it through the winter? What if we run out of food and heat, what if one of us has a heart attack or gets appendicitis and..." She let the implications trail off, but I think we knew what she was getting at.

Wesley didn't have an answer for that and neither did I. What I did know was that everything was uncertain now. There were no guarantees that we would make it to our destination alive. There was no guarantee we would even be alive tomorrow.

So we stayed at that Mexican restaurant that night, each of us taking an evening guard shift, and then the next morning we siphoned some gas from a handful of vehicles in the parking lot and hit the road again.

And as we headed northeast out of California, crossing into Nevada and eventually through Utah, Wyoming, and into Montana over several days, I began seeing fewer of those strange drawings on the ground, on walls, on rocks and trees. And as we put distance between ourselves and California, I felt the presence grow fainter as we headed into some truly remote areas. Even as we hit secondary roads in Montana, relying on a map we'd picked up at an abandoned gas station somewhere on US 84 north of Casper, Wyoming, I was feeling more confident that we were going to be okay. We would find a place—an abandoned house somewhere, an apartment building, any kind of structure would do—and we would prepare it for the coming winter. We would find a way to harvest the land for our own use. I'd never hunted game before in my life, nor had I ever grown fruits or vegetables for consumption, but I could learn. We all would. Surely we could find an abandoned bookstore somewhere, pilfer a few volumes on gardening and hunting and how to live off the land. And to address the medical concerns that came up, we could pick up medicine, medical tools and books at an abandoned hospital or medical clinic somewhere. None of us were doctors, but we could try.

And sure enough, we did. On all counts. We learned about a very large custom-built cabin in an abandoned real estate office we camped out at one night while scouting the southern fringes of Montana. It was built for a retired hospital executive and was situated on one hundred and twenty acres of fertile land, complete with a lake. We found the place easily with the help of a map and we were in luck—the place was deserted and had sustained no damage. It was almost as if it was waiting for us to occupy it.

And it was only accessible through five miles of dirt road, far away from the secondary road, and more than one hundred miles from the nearest interstate.

That's a good thing.

When we arrived at the cabin we checked out the structure and the surrounding grounds and quickly pronounced it safe. The cabin was huge—constructed of thick logs, it was a large two-story, with a great room on the first floor with a stone fireplace, a large country kitchen and adjoining dining room, and a den with floor to ceiling bookshelves. Apparently the guy who owned the place was a reader in addition to being a technophile, for just off the den there was a room crammed to the hilt with computers and ham radio equipment. There were so many computer monitors and equipment in there that you could probably launch the space shuttle with the stuff.

Upstairs there was what amounted to two separate wings—both left and right wings consisted of large bedrooms with their own baths. The middle section that joined them had two bedrooms with an adjoining bath. Tracy and I claimed the right wing for Emily and ourselves while Wesley took the left. Martin and Lori took the middle section, sharing the bathroom.

For the first few days, we made camp. I had not felt the presence for days. It grew fainter the farther northeast we drove, and by the time we crossed the Montana state line I didn't feel it at all. I voiced this to Wesley, who nodded. "I don't feel it either."

The others chimed in that they didn't feel it, either. Likewise, during our drive through Nevada, Utah, and into Wyoming, we came across fewer primitives. If there were any normal people in that barren stretch of land, we saw no signs of them.

The area around the cabin was rich and fertile with deep woods, a stream a hundred yards behind the property, and a meadow located a mile away. Right off the front porch and beyond the large dirt circular drive lay a field that eventually blended into woods. One day, Martin, Wesley, and I took a ten-mile hike around the property, noting the terrain. Wildlife was plentiful. Wesley saw evidence that the area was lush with deer; he pointed out some spoor to Martin and me on what seemed to be a hiking trail. "We'll have plenty of good eatin'," he said with a grin.

About a week into our stay at the cabin we were sitting outside, on the large porch that stretched along the front of the house. I had found a bunch of toys in an abandoned (and looted) general store in town the other day when Martin and I drove in to pilfer supplies, and Emily was playing with one of them—a large Barbie house. The summer night was pleasant, warm with a cool breeze.

"I haven't felt the presence in a good while," Martin said. He was sitting in a rocking chair. "What about any of you?"

"I haven't either," Lori said.

The rest of us chimed in. Tracy and I traded a glance, and I looked down at Emily, who'd stopped playing with her Barbies and was regarding the grownups with such a look of seriousness that was far advanced for a girl her age. I felt an instinctual urge to steer the conversation in a different direction in an attempt to shield her from the nightmares that were to come, but Emily beat me to it. "You mean that thing?" she asked. "The thing that flies?"

"What thing are you talking about honey?" Tracy asked. She leaned forward, and while she was obviously trying to be the caring mom, I could see from her body language that she was spooked by what Emily had just said.

"The thing that flies," Emily said, looking up at Tracy. "I see it sometimes."

"When do you see it, Emily?" I asked. My hand reached for the glass of scotch I was nursing.

Emily looked at me. Her expression was hard to describe. The only way I can describe it now is she looked far older than her four and a half years. "I see it in my mind. Sometimes I see it when I sleep."

We were silent for a moment. I glanced around at the others, trying not to let my fear shine through.

"Do you see it a lot, honey?" Lori asked.

Emily shook her head. "Not all the time. When I sleep mostly. But sometimes if I think about it, I'll see it. Is it the devil?"

"Why do you ask that, honey?" Tracy asked.

"Because it flies...and it...has horns. It looks bad!"

I thought back to that drawing Wesley sketched out in California. With what looked like wings, what appeared to be horns sprouting from its head, and that evil visage...it did look like what we, as a culture comprised of Judeo-Christian Americans, would consider the devil. I was not a Christian—before the world ended, I was a strict agnostic, my spiritual beliefs leaning more toward those of my Native American ancestors. Those beliefs had dwindled since the days of my late teens and early twenties when I'd embraced my heritage and participated in powwows and tribal gatherings, and they made more sense to me than the strict regimen of Christianity. Tracy, on the other hand, had been raised in a Christian household, and while she had not been a practicing Christian in the traditional sense of going to church every Sunday, she was a believer. We were raising Emily with an open mind toward religion. We wanted Emily to develop a spiritual faith on own terms, to find a path that was right for her. We'd talked to her about some basic concepts of Christianity and Judaism, told her about God, Jesus Christ, and the Devil. She also knew about Santa Claus, The Easter Bunny, and The Tooth Fairy. She believed in all of them. She was four.

What a smart-ass thing to think. If I only knew then...

"Emily," Wesley began. He was taking keen interest in what Emily was saying. He leaned forward in his chair, his demeanor totally disarming. In the days we'd been on the road Wesley had allowed Emily to get to know him on her terms and our own, and that made me feel good. He was a father too, and I know he was grieving for his wife and son. He didn't talk about it much, but late at night when he wasn't on guard shift he would retreat to his quarters with a bottle of scotch and we wouldn't see him until the following morning when he would emerge tired, eyes red from crying and worry, and soldier on. The few times I asked if he was okay, if there was anything I could do, he would politely turn down my offer of help and say he was doing as well as he could under the circumstances. I no longer held reservations against him from a few weeks before, when he'd been forced to kill Heather.

Emily looked at Wesley as he seemed to think of the right words to say. "You not only see this thing in your dreams, but do you still feel its presence...like the way we felt it in California?"

Emily didn't say anything for a moment. She appeared to truly think about it, then she shook her head. "No. I don't feel it anymore. It used to feel like somebody was looking for us...or seeing us."

We were all riveted to what that little girl was saying. Several of us nodded in understanding.

"I don't feel that, but..." She looked from her mother to me, perhaps in an effort to seek our help. "...I still see it in my head sometimes and...it's far away...real far away... but...it has eyes...and they're...searching..."

I felt myself shiver.

"Do you know what it's searching for, honey?" Tracy asked.

"No." For the first time, Emily looked afraid. "It's not looking for us, is it?"

Martin quickly changed the subject. "If I'm not mistaken, July 4th is coming up real soon. Do you like the Fourth of July, Emily?"

Emily brightened up quickly. "I love the Fourth of July! I like fireworks!" She clapped her hands in glee.

Later that night after Tracy laid Emily down to bed, we met outside on the porch again. It was Martin's watch but the warm summer nights were so nice it was hard to not bask in their natural beauty. "Do you think she's really seeing that thing or do you think she's just dreaming about it?" Martin asked Tracy and me.

"It's hard to say," Tracy said. She was nursing a glass of wine. Our nameless benefactor had a well-stocked bar that was going to be depleted by the end of the year if we didn't restock it soon. "Emily's always been an imaginative child. I'd like to think the dreams are a projection of the stress she's no doubt going through. I don't think she saw that drawing but—"

"She's seen plenty of them on the drive out here," I said.

Tracy sighed. "Yeah, she has."

"The key is, she hasn't felt the presence," Martin said. "Neither have we. I agree that her dreams might be a projection of what she's been going through. She's witnessed far too much for a child her age, and you and David have done remarkably well in shielding her from much of the ugliness we've been through. I think it might be a good idea to encourage her to share with you anything she dreams about, especially when it concerns that thing."

"You don't think her dreams are psychic visions or something, do you?" I asked.

Martin shrugged. "No. I really don't know. Just that..." he regarded us all calmly. His Glock rested on an end table near a tall glass of ice tea. He picked up the glass, took a sip. "...I want to keep an open mind. I don't know what that thing is and...we all felt a presence of something. And now we don't feel it. Right?"

I nodded, as did the rest of us. It was true. I hadn't felt the presence since entering Montana.

"All I'm saying is we should allow Emily to naturally share her dreams with us as much as possible and without scaring her," Martin continued. "I'm far from being a child psychologist, and I'd like to think that what she's shared with us is simply her subconscious helping her deal with the trauma of the last few weeks."

"That's what I'd like to think too," Tracy said.

"But we don't know for sure," I said.

"Right," Martin intoned.

I didn't like the idea of using Emily as a conduit to that thing, because that's what Martin was suggesting. I expressed this to Tracy later that night in the sitting room of our wing.

"I think we might be over-reacting just a little bit," Tracy said. "Emily's an imaginative child and she's gone through a lot the past few weeks. I think it's possible she's connected the presence we felt to that drawing, and even though she no longer feels the presence itself, she's retained the image of whatever that thing is and has dreamed about it. I think her subconscious has pegged it as a symbol for what's happened."

Tracy's explanation made a lot of sense. And in the days that followed, Tracy researched the subject of childhood trauma and dreams further in a series of books on childhood care and development I'd brought home from our first big expedition into town. Emily's behavior didn't change either, a further stamp of approval on Tracy's hypothesis.

Within a few days we decided to make the cabin our permanent home in this new world. It just felt safe. The remote location, the absence of primitives, much less other people who, to tell you the truth, I did not want to run across, was the deciding factor.

Our days were spent securing our new home, making sure we had enough provisions. Making sure there were no signs of primitives, or other normal humans. We agreed that if we came across any normal people, either on our trips into town for provisions, or if any came across our territory, that we would have to assume they were hostile until they proved otherwise.

"It might be a good idea to make only periodic trips to town," Lori said one day during breakfast. "Say one every few months. Both to save on gas, and less exposure for us in case trouble does happen to head this way."

I thought back to how we found out about this cabin. We had taken a copy of the real estate listing with us when we left the building, but how many other copies were left? I mentioned this casually to the group, then made a mental note that next time we were in town to find all references to the cabin in that real estate office and destroy them. I didn't want to give anybody else the same idea we had.

Wesley marked down the days with a large calendar the former owner had tacked up on a cork bulletin board in a kitchen alcove. He also made himself responsible for the weapons, securing boxes of various caliber rounds in a utility room off the garage. The guns and more ammunition were stored in two large gun cabinets in the living room that we kept unlocked. Wesley explained this was a necessity in the event we needed to get to them immediately. Because the weapons were already loaded and ready for use, the living room was the only place in the house Emily was not allowed in by herself.

In addition, Wesley took it upon himself to learn how the generator worked, and in no time had the electricity running. He also started fiddling with the ham radio equipment in what he was now calling "the radio room." He got the main console powered up and searched across all the bands, trying to get a signal. He was sure that eventually people like us would stumble upon similar equipment, which they would use to attempt to communicate with others in a feeble attempt to regroup. Civilization might be gone, but the satellites we'd launched into space were still up there orbiting the planet. "We have to be aware of our own kind," he told us one night over dinner. "We have to know what's out there, what's going on in the rest of the world." I agreed. It was better to know how the rest of the world was faring than to not know.

On July 2nd Wesley and I drove into town in the Jeep. We saw no primitives, no signs of human life. In addition to getting supplies such as food—mostly canned and dry goods—first aid supplies, household goods, and more weapons and ammunition, we also found a couple sets of two-way radios. "So we can communicate better on trips like this, and around the grounds," Wesley explained. He also scooped up a CB radio kit and several books on short-wave and ham radio. I found a couple of medical books, some kids books for Emily, some DVDs to try out on the entertainment center in the great room (might as well take advantage of the way our benefactor powered his property), among other things. Our last stop was the real estate office where we searched for other references to the cabin and destroyed those we found.

On July 4th we had our own Independence Day celebration. Martin grilled hotdogs and hamburgers from the supply that was still in our benefactor's freezer. Emily wanted to play with sparklers, which Tracy and I forbade. "We don't want to start a fire," I told her. Emily didn't like it, and we were probably going a little overboard, but it was a different world now.

That night as the darkness crept in, we watched Emily chase fireflies. Lori, Tracy, and I stepped out to join her, running through the fields, laughing and chasing each other around while Wesley stood watch on the deck. Later we all congregated on the back deck, and as Emily reclined with Tracy on a La-Z-Boy, Martin summed up what I think all of us were feeling. "Over two hundred years ago, people in this country sacrificed their lives for their independence. How could their descendents fuck it up so quickly?"

None of us had an answer for that.

Two days later we came up with a basic plan of survival for the coming months and years. All of us had some kind of watch patrol, and that went on twenty-four seven. Our individual strengths and talents were utilized for other things. Martin admitted to being an amateur chef and was deemed the house cook while Tracy, who once had multiple first aid certifications in her youth and spent some corporate time at an HMO, was deemed the house MD. Of course the guys we had were pretty able bodied and strong, so we all joined in for any kind of manual labor that needed to be done. Lori had been into gardening in her past life and she took it upon herself to take stock of the surrounding vegetation and draw up a list of what she wanted to cultivate next spring. "Maybe next trip into town you can pick this stuff up in the greenhouse section of Wal-Mart," she said, handing me a list of herbs and vegetables. No problem.

There was no real official leader. With only six of us in our group, one of us being a child under the age of five, we all pretty much fell in to our duties and took charge of other things. I think the only defacto "government" type of meeting we had was one night a few days after July 4th when we agreed to assume all non-primitive humans were hostile. Wesley clarified things by saying, "Anybody comes across here, we try to take them peacefully. If they're not peaceful, we kill them."

"What do we do with them if they are peaceful?" I asked. "Tie them up and chain them to the posts in the basement?"

"Yes," Wesley said. He wasn't kidding. "I've participated in interrogations. I'll be able to tell if they're telling me the truth. We find out what they know and we'll use whatever information we learn to base our next decision on."

It made sense, especially in our neck of the woods where the human population seemed to be nonexistent. I had a feeling that if James Goodman were still with us, he would have been the lone dissenting voice in that decision. That last gasp of good old-fashioned liberalism straining to hold on.

Meanwhile, every day, Wesley spent time in the radio room poring over books, twiddling knobs and switches, teaching himself the ins and outs of ham radio. We'd already tried the computers and failed at connecting with the Internet. I always wondered how this guy would have connected to the Internet way out in the middle of bumfuck anyway without a landline. I asked Wesley how this was possible one night and he pointed out the small satellite dish on the roof as possibly being military.

Tracy was beginning a home schooling program for Emily. Lori assisted when possible. Still grieving over Eric's loss, Tracy would often retreat to our suite and not emerge for hours. One day I went up there to see if she was okay and she was crying hysterically. She was clutching his baby pictures in her lap. "Go away! Please, leave me alone!" I retreated, afraid for her sanity, realizing that she'd never get over the loss of her firstborn child. The few times I tried to bring it up to her she'd say, "I can't talk about it right now," and turn away.

Lori Smith became my sounding board, my personal therapist, for all things concerning Tracy and Eric. "She just needs time to heal," she told me one afternoon. We were sitting on the back deck, watching Emily play with her Barbie dollhouse on the lawn below. "Right now Emily is her world. She's keeping herself together because she has Emily. If she didn't...even though she loves you, I think she'd be in worse shape than she is now."

Lori was right. All I could do was try to be supportive and learn to read Tracy's emotions. I cared for Emily as much as I could during those weeks, and we allowed Emily to run free and live her childhood as much as we could that summer. I played with her frequently. There were afternoons when Emily and I would run in the fields and I'd pick her up and swing her by her hands, listening as she laughed. Then I'd tickle the soft skin of her belly and she'd giggle hysterically. It was times like that when I forgot everything that had happened, when I wished I could envelop Tracy and Emily into a world of endless fields where we'd play and be childlike, without a care in the world. I felt so good about giving that to Emily, giving her this opportunity to be a child, that if I could die with happiness that would be my crowning achievement: making my little girl feel happy. Alive. Cared for. Loved.

Those feelings solidified for me late at night when I'd creep into our bedroom on bare feet, Emily nestled against Tracy, both of them fast asleep. I'd pause for a moment, watching them sleep so peacefully, so calmly, and then I'd cry for a world our child would never have...a life she'd never have or experience. I'd cry for her future, for the future of others, the world.

But despite that, we soldiered on.

And we saw no primitives.

Or normal people for that matter.

I began to settle into the notion that perhaps it would be okay if we were the last sane people on earth. We would do okay on our own. We would survive.

Besides, if there were other people somewhere, say in larger metropolitan areas, who hadn't been killed, surely many of them had banded together in their own civilizations. The old system of government would be gone and, as we'd discussed before, tyrants would emerge and rule by force and fear. Surely we were better off by ourselves, far away from the possibility of living under such harsh conditions.

There was no way to find out if this was happening. And we had no desire to send somebody out to scout outlying areas and report back if this was happening.

Besides, the primitives would eventually die out, right?

And then one night in late July, as I was preparing to head upstairs to my suite, Wesley called me over to the radio room.

It seems he'd made contact with somebody.

Our world changed again that night.

Eleven

Tracy and Emily were in our quarters, already in bed, and I was downstairs in the living room thinking how easily Emily was adapting to our new life here, and how I was going to get Tracy out of her depression over losing Eric, when Wesley called me over.

"What's up?" I walked over to the radio room, rifle slung over my shoulder nonchalantly.

Wesley's features were grave. "Come here. Listen."

The radio equipment was on, and as I stepped into the room I heard, amid the hum of static, a human voice. "...so wherever you are, please...if you hear this, do whatever you can to seek shelter..."

"What the—?" I began.

Wesley held up a hand, motioning me to silence. We sat and stood in that radio room transfixed by what we were hearing.

"—I've seen this thing and it is exactly...no it is the thing they've been drawing ever since the world changed. It's an actual being! It's fucking real, man, and this... thing...this demon...it's awake now and its always been with us, it was just sleeping, lying dormant for thousands of years because those who once believed in it and worshipped it eventually died out and it was their belief in it that sustained it, that kept it alive, but when they died it died and now they're back, they're back with a vengeance and there's more of them so now it's stronger, much stronger than ever before and it's roaming the earth, gathering all its worshippers under its power and those of us it finds it...it...ah, shit man, I don't know how else to describe it but...it...it possesses them! It's like it gets inside them and turns them into things that are even worse than the cavemen! And the cavemen fucking bow before it and—"

"Am I hearing this right, Wesley?" I asked. I suddenly felt weak. I slid the rifle from my shoulder and leaned it against the wall, stock down. "Please tell me this is a joke."

"No joke," Wesley said. I've never seen him look so scared since this whole mess started.

If I thought the end of the world started that day when everything started falling apart, when society went awry, I was wrong. As terrible as that had been, as awful as it was to fight to stay alive, to endure what we did in fighting the primitives, escaping Los Angeles, coming across more bands of primitives and fighting them off, dealing with Heather's closet racism and her and James's deaths, coming here to this secluded cabin seemed like a glimmer of hope. There was light at the end of the tunnel and we were heading toward it.

Now that light was growing dim.

It was being closed off.

The guy on the radio was crying now. "I've been holed up in this shithole for three days without food and I haven't seen a single real person in over a month! The primitives have found me and they've been gathering outside and...I don't think they know about my radio equipment, otherwise I think they would have smashed it, but I had to take the risk, had to see if I could contact anybody else alive and normal and warn them and—"

"There's no way he can tell where we are, right?" I asked Wesley, feeling the unease grip the pit of my stomach.

"No," Wesley said. "Only way ham radio operators can tell the location of those receiving is if you answer back with your call sign prefix. I haven't heard this guy give his, and I'm guessing he has no idea what it is. Those days are long over."

The guy stopped talking and was crying on the air now.

"So you don't know where he is?" I asked.

"No."

"Can you respond to him?"

Wesley looked at me. "Think we should?"

"Yeah." The burning need to reach out to this guy, to establish more human contact, was strong. I think Wesley felt it too. "Just don't give away our location."

Wesley nodded, leaned toward the console, picked up the microphone and depressed the button. "I read you, partner," he said. "I read you loud and clear."

The sobs stopped abruptly. The guy had obviously heard Wesley.

Wesley tried again. "Please...we're here...talk to us..."

"Oh my God, there's somebody out there?" the guy said. He sounded halfway on the verge of shouting in joy.

"We're out here alright, buddy. You can count on that."

The guy started babbling again. "Have you seen it? I don't know where you are, but if you've seen it please—"

I signaled for Wesley to make sure the guy couldn't hear us talking. Wesley nodded, and I whispered. "I'm going to wake up Tracy and get Lori and Martin down here."

Wesley nodded and I headed out of the radio room.

Lori and Martin were still up in their respective rooms. When I told them the news, they headed downstairs as I went to my suite and gently shook Tracy awake. "Wesley came across a guy broadcasting on the radio," I said quietly. "We're talking to him now."

At the sound of this, Tracy was up. She was dressed in a pair of panties and a T-shirt and followed me out of our suite to the stairs. "How'd he find him?"

I quickly explained what I knew and by the time we got back down to the radio room Lori and Martin were grouped around the console, listening with grave expressions as the guy went through his previous monologue. "—this thing fucking flies, okay! It's got wings, and it flies. I am not shitting you man, I've seen it with my own eyes!"

I saw Lori and Tracy exchange a glance as we entered the room. For the first time I noticed that Martin had his handgun with him.

"How often have you seen it?" Wesley asked.

"For the past...I don't know...two, maybe three weeks."

"Where do you see it?"

"Outside, man! It's fucking outside, in the...generally in the hours between seven and nine at night."

"And it doesn't see you?"

"No. At least I don't think it does. It's always far away. At least a good mile, maybe two miles."

"So how do you know it looks like the drawings we see everywhere if it's that far?"

"Because it fucking turns its head my way and I can see it!" It sounded like the guy, whoever he was, was beginning to get a little irritated by the questioning. "I know it sounds crazy man, but this thing is big, okay? I mean, big big. Like bigger than a fucking jet. I've been watching it through binoculars, through my telescope, and it's far enough away that it doesn't see or sense me, but I can see it clear as day and it's fucking monstrous!"

"Which way is it going when you see it?" Martin asked.

"It's flying north to south in a zigzagging direction heading west," the man said.

Wesley glanced at the rest of us quickly and turned back to the console. "The rest of our group is here now," he said. "You've already met Martin, Lori, and myself. I'd like you to meet David and Tracy."

For a minute I was stunned that Wesley had identified himself to the guy—why do something like that? As I was trying to shake myself out of that shock, Tracy mumbled a quick hello. I think the guy said hi to her, then I heard him identify himself. "My name's Stuart. Stuart David Schiff. My call sign's WB3SDS. What's yours?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that Stuart because I don't know," Wesley said calmly. "We just kinda came across the equipment we're talking to you on and I taught myself the ropes. I'm not sure of the previous owner's call sign."

"That's okay," Stuart said. "Can you tell me where you are?"

"Can't do that either, partner," Wesley said quickly. "No offense, but call it security."

Stuart seemed to get the message. "Okay, yeah, I can dig that. Sure."

"No need for you to give us your location," Wesley said. "I know you're somewhere east of the Mississippi judging by your call sign."

"Yeah, that's right," Stuart said. "You really think anybody else could be listening in?"

"Better to be safe than sorry later."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." The guy paused a moment. "I haven't seen anybody in weeks. Probably a month. Plenty of those crazy people...those that have lost their minds, but nobody like us."

"We call them primitives," I said.

"Primitives," Stuart said. "Yeah, I can see that. Like cavemen. It fits."

"You said something earlier about this thing, this thing that flies...that it was possessing people," Wesley said. "What do you mean?"

"I live downtown, okay? On the corner of First Street and Commonwealth. I'm on the top floor, and my apartment is in the corner. I see a lot from up here and what I saw...shit, it's hard to explain."

"Just take it slow and do your best," Wesley said.

"Okay." Stuart took a deep breath and took the plunge. "About a week, maybe a week and a half after everything went to shit, I was looking out through my telescope. I used to do that before, just to look at the stars and stuff, but when all this happened it became more of a habit in order to survive, you know what I mean? So I can check to see if shit was happening, or about to happen. Eventually most of the chaos died down and the primitives, or whatever you call them, headed uptown. So anyway...I'm checking things out, and it's around twilight. And I see a bunch of those...primitives or whatever...I see them about five blocks north of me toward the business district. There's like a town square in that area, and they're gathered around there. At first I thought it was the National Guard or something and I got all excited, but then I saw it was them...they were all naked, some were wearing like...I don't know...fur coats or something, while others were partially dressed. And they were dancing around in front of this wall. Then...one of them...he was like...the leader I guess. He points to the sky and they all raise their hands like you do in church. I could hear them from where I was...I had the windows open...and it was like...I couldn't quite understand what they were sayin' 'cause it was all gibberish, but it just...it just felt like they were prayin' to something."

"Praying?" Lori said.

"Yes ma'am," Stuart said. "Prayin'."

"You weren't able to make out any drawings at that time, were you?"

"Oh yeah," Stuart said. "I saw those like a week after Philadelphia went to hell." Philadelphia, Pennsylvania then. That's where Stuart was broadcasting from.

"Have you ventured outside at all since everything happened?" Martin asked.

"Yes, once or twice," Stuart said. "My neighbor keeps a supply of guns. Well, he used to. I've got them now. I went out to get more food and stuff, and that's when I saw those drawings. I didn't think much of them at first, but then..."

"Then you saw it," Wesley confirmed.

Stuart sighed. "Yeah. It was the damnedest thing. Those...things...were praying, raising their hands to the sky like they were at a tent revival, and I heard this noise and looked up and there it was."

I felt a chill overtake me. "And it looked like the thing in the drawing?"

"It did, and when I saw it I about wet myself."

The five of us looked at each other, silent in our own thoughts.

"So it was flying above the primitives?" Wesley asked. "The ones who were...praying?"

"Yeah. It was like they were worshipping it."

I could see it all too clearly. Scattered bands of primitives making those crude drawings, gathering together in worship and then being visited by their strange god as it made its presence known to them.

"What happened then?" Martin asked.

"I watched them for ten minutes or so," Stuart continued. "And that thing...it just kinda hovered about twenty, maybe thirty feet over them. Then it took off and flew away, heading north. It was when it flew away that it freaked me out. At first I thought I'd lost my mind, that I was seeing things. But when it actually turned and flapped its wings...shit, you could hear them. You could like...feel the vibration in the air."

What Stuart felt was probably akin to what it felt like to stand near a 747 when it took off from a runway. Especially if it was as big as he made it out to be.

"What happened after it flew away?" Wesley asked.

"Those things just kind of hollered...or gave these yells that sounded like they were happy. Kinda like, 'yaaay!' Then they dispersed and when they did I saw one was lying on the ground. I got a closer look at him through the telescope and saw he was dead."

"Murdered?" Wesley asked.

"Yeah, I think so. I saw a lot of blood. Couldn't tell how he died, though."

"Was that drawing anywhere nearby?"

"Yeah it was. On the wall where they were gathered."

"And you said this thing possessed them?" This came from Tracy.

"About two hours later I was still at my telescope looking for more of them and I saw them come running up the street. They were like...herding this other one...he was sort of in the middle of this group of them, and the others were herding him along. And they got to the place where they were earlier and sort of lifted him to the top of the wall. I focused in and...ah, shit man, I don't know how else to describe it but...this one just seemed...different than the others. Like...you know how they are...they're like us only they act like they're fucking cavemen, right? Like they're animals. Right?"

We all nodded and murmured agreement at this.

"Well this one wasn't like that. It was like it had gained some...I don't know...some level of intelligence back. It had a more prominent gait and demeanor, and when I looked at it I saw...its face...its face was...different."

"How do you mean?"

"It was like...there was a subtle change in its facial structure. I don't know how else to describe it. It was almost like it was morphed a little bit. It probably wasn't obvious if you hadn't seen these things, but I've been living here with them now for a month, okay? I've kinda gotten to recognize their behavior pattern and the way they look. And basically they look like us, only they're wild. You know? This one seemed to have regained its civilized nature back but only gradually. Again, it's hard to describe."

"Did you see it again?"

"Yes, and that's what I'm coming to. After they left, that other one came back and ate the dead one that was lying there. I was watching it and—"

"You watched one of those things eat somebody?" Lori asked, slightly disgusted.

"It's not the first time I've seen one of them eating their own kind," Stuart said. "Or one of us for that matter. And besides, I was watching it to get a better look at it because this time it looked different again. This time it had horns!"

"What?" From myself, Lori, and Martin.

"Yeah, it had horns. Or the beginning of horns. It was also hunched over...like its body shape was changing as well."

"Have you seen it since then?"

"Only twice. And both times it's gone through additional transformations." Stuart's voice grew low. Sibilant. "It's like...it's changing into a mini-me version of that thing. It doesn't have wings or anything, but it's definitely different...way more so now than it was when I first saw it. And get this..."

We all grew silent as Stuart continued, and as he related this next batch of information I could feel the hairs standing along the nape of my neck. "The last time I saw it, the thing was coming. I call it the God of the New World, 'cause that's what I think it is. I could see it flying from the north, heading my way, and I ducked down to avoid being seen, but I still had the telescope out and I was watching it. The thing wasn't paying attention to me. It was just...flying around, going back and forth. It got about five, maybe six blocks from me and when I saw that its back was to me I took a chance and got a wide view of the area it was flying over. And...that other thing...that...primitive, the one that was changing, it was running directly below the thing and it was...making these weird gestures with its face and arms. I didn't know what it was doing at first. It was just going back and forth, across the street and back, over and over again, and I looked back up at the God of the New World and saw the connection. Every time the God of the New World changed course, that primitive changed right along with it. More I watched, the more I saw that the primitive was...it was linked to the God of the New World somehow. Making the same movements with its face, its arms, moving its head, the way it flew back and forth...the primitive was making the same movements and running back and forth in the same spot. As if it was being pulled—"

"Like it was directing it," I said. "Or...moving it around like a marionette pulls a puppet's strings."

"Yeah, exactly!" Stuart said.

"Have you seen this kind of behavior since then?" Wesley asked.

Stuart wrapped up his summation quickly. Five days after he witnessed that strange ritual/possession he caught a glimpse of another, this time coming from the opposite direction. "By then I had commandeered the entire top floor of my building," he said. "I just busted down the doors of the other apartments. They emptied out the day the shit hit the fan. Gives me a better view, and I barricaded the door to the staircase. Of course the elevators don't work here anymore and I'm twenty flights up, so those things will have to be really determined to get me if they want to. Anyway, I saw a similar ritual on the north side five days later. This time the God of the New World was controlling three of them. I think one of those was the first one I saw. It seemed...like it had changed more. It...didn't look human anymore."

Once again, I felt my veins freeze. I traded a glance with Wesley, then with Tracy. The look on Tracy's face was one of pure terror.

"So that's what I mean by this thing possesses them. It seems to take them over, turn them into miniature versions of itself," Stuart explained.

There was nothing else to discuss. Nothing else to debate, no further clarification needed. We had no need to disbelieve Stuart. He was a rarity in this new world. An un-primitive human being.

"I'm going to guess that it's too dangerous for you to get out of the city," Wesley said. Wesley looked exhausted. "Is that right, Stuart?"

"Yeah, I'd say so," Stuart said. "Some days it seems like I'm the only one here. I don't even see any primitives. I can sometimes go three, four days without seeing anybody. Then suddenly I've got a clan of them down on First Street running around like goddamn wild monkeys."

"Does that thing—that God of the New World, as you call it—show up when the primitives are nearby?" Martin asked.

"Not all the time," Stuart admitted. "But I don't want to take that chance. I just assume it's around."

Martin made a throat slashing gesture with his hand, signaling to Wesley to cut the communication off with Stuart. Wesley nodded and turned to the console. "Listen, Stuart, I need to regroup with my people. Can I get you on this frequency again tomorrow afternoon?"

"Yeah, I'll be here. WB3SDS."

"Okay. Four o'clock Eastern time."

"Four o'clock it is.

"Take care of yourself, Stuart," Wesley said.

"You too, Wesley. And the rest of you. Sorry, I don't remember all of your names. I should...you guys are the only people I've heard from since...this all started." Stuart's voice broke slightly.

"It's okay, buddy," Wesley said, his tone soft. "We'll talk to you later."

"Okay. Over and out."

Wesley released the button on the mike and leaned back from the console. The five of us regarded each other in that darkened radio room. I could read it in their faces, see it in everyone's eyes.

"This is bad," Martin said.

Twelve

Despite the lateness of the hour, we weren't tired. I think we were all too disturbed by what we'd just heard to try to go back to sleep. I know Tracy was very bothered by what Stuart had to say. I could read it on her face. She prepared herself a glass of wine at the bar while Martin drew whiskey into glasses for himself and Wesley. Lori was sitting outside on the deck, looking out at the vast night. Eventually we made our way outside and grouped around the table that the former owner had set outside to serve as a gathering area for guests. The spot had become our unofficial meeting place for the summer.

"So what does this mean for us?" Lori asked. She was a dark silhouette in the night. Unlike other evenings when we brought candles out to illuminate the night, we sat in the dark. The evening was mild, in the low seventies, and I could see fireflies twinkling in the field below us.

"It means we made the right decision in holing up here," Martin said.

"If Stuart's in Philadelphia and this thing is heading west, will it swing by this way?" Tracy asked.

"And is it an actual real being?" I mused.

"Of course it's real," Lori said. "What kind of dumb ass question is that?"

"We never saw this thing," I said. I was more or less thinking out loud. Trying to make sense of what I'd just heard, trying to apply it with what limited knowledge I had of primitive belief systems. "We saw the drawings, and I think we can all agree that the drawings represent a collective understanding...maybe some kind of psychic link the primitives have with this thing. God of the New World seems to be an apt name, but I wonder if it's accurate? God of the Old World may be a more accurate description."

"God don't look like that, and you know it!" Lori said.

I raised my hand up to stop the protest. "Hear me out for a minute. We agree that this virus Wesley told us about reverted everybody to his or her primitive state, that it altered our DNA and woke up the Neanderthal strain. Correct?"

I sensed nods all around. Martin murmured quietly. "Okay."

"What do we know about the spiritual beliefs of primitive man?" I resumed. "Anybody?"

Now I sensed confusion. Bafflement. Apparently my new clan was just as clueless about the spiritual beliefs of primitive man as I was.

"Just...what I've seen on the History Channel," Wesley said, making a noble try. "We know they had rituals over their dead...that they had burial rituals and stuff."

"Yeah," I said, nodding. "And James said that some primitive cultures practiced human sacrifice. We know various primitive cultures had different gods. God of sun, water, earth, that kind of stuff."

"I'm sure most of that is pure speculation," Tracy said.

"Sure," I agreed. "Speculation based on the scant archeological record. I admit, I don't know much about Neanderthals, just that they were a lower form of man, a distant relative, if you will."

"I thought there was a missing link between Neanderthal and modern Homo sapiens?" Tracy asked.

I shrugged. "It's possible. I remember something from the same History Channel episode Wesley saw. Something about ancient superstitious beliefs of primitive man. Cave drawings, ancient artifacts found that suggest religious belief. Evidence of primitive burial rituals which would suggest some kind of belief in not only an after-life but a god of some sort."

"But nobody knows what kind of god," Martin said.

"That's what I'm not sure of," I said. "But here's the thing." I leaned over the table. I could sense the others drawing close to me in order to listen to what I had to say. I was very aware of Mother Nature around me; the breeze rustling the branches and leaves of the trees, the chirping of the crickets, the flickering lights of the fireflies dancing in the field below. I was trying to imagine how things might have been twenty thousand years ago or more. How the destructive winds of a hurricane might appear to primitive man who had no concept of the scientific basis of such weather patterns; that would be the wind god, of course. And if a hunting expedition proved to bear good fruit, it wasn't the combined skill or power of the hunter-gatherers that took the wooly mammoth down...it was the god of earth who helped things along, who made it possible for half a dozen men armed only with crude spears to bring down an enormous animal that could easily crush and maim with one stomp of a foot. Lightning setting trees on fire? That was the god of fire, of course. "Despite all the evidence we have of primitive man, we don't really know what they thought or believed in. There's no written record. We can only speculate based on the archeological record and by observing some of our more primitive cousins—chimpanzees, gorillas and the like."

"So you believe in evolution?" Lori asked.

"Yeah, I do," I said. I had no desire to get into a religious debate with Lori who, judging by some past comments, appeared to be a devout Christian. I wasn't sure if she was the type who swallowed the creation story as related in Genesis lock, stock and barrel—and I knew far more Christians who saw that story as pure allegory—but if that was the case, I didn't want to get into a theological argument with her. "But that's beside the point. Hear me out for a minute, okay?"

I sensed and saw nods around me. Tracy reached under the table and patted my leg. I smiled at her.

"We know Neanderthals were a somewhat more primitive distant cousin of us," I began. "They formed small communities. They learned how to make and harness fire, they made small tools, and they organized into warring sects. And they had some kind of primitive spiritual belief system as I mentioned earlier. There's also evidence they crossed paths and possibly crossbred with Homo sapiens, as...well, as we now have evidence of that due to what happened. The point is, prior to Homo sapiens appearing in the world, how much do we know about Neanderthal's belief systems? Not much, I would think. In fact, I don't think Neanderthals doodled on the walls of caves like our Homo Sapiens ancestors. I think what we're seeing with these drawings the primitives are doing is a result of our own hidden knowledge of communication and art. Anyway..." I paused, trying to collect my thoughts in order to articulate what I was trying to say. "Suppose Neanderthals had a belief system...that they worshipped a god that became so real to them...so powerful in their collective psyche that this...god...or whatever...it became real to them. It became powerful to them. They did all the things we're seeing and hearing about now...made sacrifice to it, performed rituals to appease it and then...over time, as Homo sapiens appeared and Neanderthals began dying out, belief in the god died and in turn..." I looked out in the darkness at my clan and I think they all understood what I was getting at. I saw Martin nod in acknowledgement next to me.

"You're saying suppose the god itself died off as Neanderthals did and now that they're back, it's back," Martin said.

"Bingo," I said.

"Jesus," Wesley said. I could sense him lean back in his chair. I could also sense the others coming to grips with what I had just hypothesized.

"So it's come back," Tracy said. Her hand found mine beneath the table and our fingers intertwined, drawing strength. "The Neanderthal strain has been awakened, and belief in the god has come back."

"And it's actually brought it back," Martin said. It sounded like Martin was having a hard time processing this.

"I think I'm having a hard time coming to grips with this myself," Lori said. She directed her next question to me. "How can it be physically back, though? That would suggest that Christians who believed in God could actually bring Him into the flesh for real."

"Yeah, but I think we have far more primitives in the world now than we've ever had Christians," I said. "Think of all that subconscious will of belief working at once. More than ninety percent of the human population, probably. All sharing that spiritual link."

"This is insane," Wesley said.

"I know," I said. I could feel my clan's confusion and intellectual struggle to wrap their minds around this. "It sounds crazy. Believe me, the thought that a belief in some kind of god could be so strong, especially the collective belief being so great...that it could make it appear in the flesh...it just flies in the face of everything that I believe in, but I have to take it into consideration. After all, it's happening."

"You're just making an educated guess at this, right?" Lori asked me. "I mean, whatever this thing is...this god...it couldn't have actually existed thousands of years ago—"

"But it did," I interrupted her. "It existed in the collective minds of primitive man."

"And now that they're back, those old beliefs have been reawakened," Wesley said, finally on my wavelength. "And there's more of them now than there have ever been. That's made their belief in it stronger." His eyes met mine across the table in the darkness. I could make them out in his dark silhouette.

"Yes," I said, nodding. I squeezed Tracy's hand. "Their collective belief has reawakened it and it's seeking its believers out. It's drawing them together to make it even stronger than it ever was before."

"And it's possessing its followers for the same reason," Wesley said, his features grave. "The more of its followers it can possess, the stronger a grip it has in the world."

I nodded, feeling the weight of dread settle over me. "Yeah," I said. "Now comes the next question. How to stop it."

Thirteen

The following day several things of importance occurred.

I headed to town, accompanied by Martin and several rifles and handguns, in order to find some books on primitive man and ancient superstitious beliefs. It was during our absence that most of the important things occurred, so I'll deal with the retelling of those events in due time.

Martin and I left fairly early—about eight o'clock—and drove to town. We were silent most of the way over. Martin drove. We'd gone to bed the night before tired, confused, scared, wondering what to do with the newfound information we'd learned. It was my idea to try to find books to research the subject of primitive man. Surely there had to be a library in town that would have books on the subject. The few books we'd picked up on an earlier excursion to town—medical books, guides to herbs and plants, volumes on childcare—had been secured from a ransacked Wal-Mart.

The town of Haversville is a dot on the map, but it once boasted a population of ten thousand. Most of our food and other sundries had been acquired from the shopping center at the northeast end of town. This time, as we drove through town, we headed through the downtown business district, looking for any indications of a library or bookstore. We thought there would be at least a library.

We were rewarded midway through town with a sign that pointed the direction to the Haversville Library. Martin steered the SUV in the right direction and a moment later we were circling the lot, scoping it out for any primitives.

I'd noticed a smell the moment we crossed into town. It was the smell of rotting flesh. Hundreds of bodies lying dead and maimed in their homes, in their cars, on the street; or dead from being attacked by primitives. It was hard to tell who had been primitive and who hadn't.

In the few times we'd been to Haversville I probably saw no more than fifty dead bodies. I assume most of the other ten thousand or so people who turned primitive had either fled to wherever it was they were gathering, or those who'd been spared the flipping of the DNA strain (like us) left town and scattered. Or they were killed.

Martin pulled the SUV into the library's parking lot, and as we exited the vehicle I got the feeling we were being watched.

I held the M4 rifle in my hands, muzzle pointing skyward. Martin tensed up beside me, weapon ready. He felt it too.

We weren't alone.

Martin and I exchanged a glance.

"Behind us," I whispered.

We whirled around in unison and squeezed off a volley of shots the minute we saw the primitive come rushing at us from a mass of shrubbery that bordered the lot. It yelled a war cry, and as it ran I saw it was naked. Its penis flopped uselessly between its legs and I caught a brief glimpse of a dirt and blood encrusted face, a wild look of mad intent in those eyes before it was cut down in a burst of gunfire.

It went down, legs twitching spastically, and was still.

Martin and I paused, eyes and ears alert for anything else.

All I could hear was the twitter of birds hopping among the trees. The sun was out, beating down on us, and the sky was bright blue.

The perfect summer day. In a dead town.

I tried to listen for human movement. The crunching of leaves beneath human tread, the harsh breathing of somebody making their way through side streets, the excited cries of primitives at the sound of gunfire. Even the sound of a real person shouting "Hey, I heard gunfire over there! Somebody else is out there! Maybe it's the National Guard or something! Hey, help us!" But there was none of that. There was only the silence of a near-perfect summer day.

Martin and I approached the corpse. A waft of foul body odor and excrement wafted up at me. I grimaced. "It's dead."

"Come on," Martin said, turning a grim countenance to the library. "Let's get this over with."

As we entered the library we were once again greeted by the foul stench of rotting flesh. A woman lay face down near the check out desk, her hair matted with flies and maggots, her business suit dusty. A once-portly man in a wheelchair was slouched over a computer desk, his throat ripped out. The expanding gases in his belly had distended his abdomen grotesquely and his T-shirt was ripped from the strain. I held a hand up to my nose and mouth, wondering if I'd be sick before I could get started in my search, when Martin pointed to our left. "Here we go," he said. "History and Anthropology. You go check it out, I'll stand watch here."

"Okay," I stepped toward the section, brandishing my weapon.

I passed one more body on my way, a boy of about twelve with brown collar-length hair. A chunk of flesh had been ripped from his throat and his blood had soaked into the carpet in a wide arc. I couldn't help but step through that dried blood as I made my way to the shelves, although once I realized why the carpet was so hard and crinkly beneath my footfalls I changed my path to skirt around it.

I finally came to the section I was interested in and tried to read the titles on the spines in the darkness. While the blinds had been open when the madness hit, this section of the library was toward the center of the building, and in between the shelves it was darker than usual. I quickly determined how the volumes were arranged and tried to run through the sub-headings as fast as I could: US History, European History, Asian History, the Middle Ages, Ancient History...

I paused at this section, paying closer attention to each title as I scanned through them. Sure enough, it was written ancient history: Mesopotamia, Babylonian History, and Egyptian History. On the shelf immediately following Ancient History was a placard that read Anthropology. It was there where I struck pay dirt with the first title I came across: Primitive Man.

I pulled the volume out without even bothering to flip it open and scan the chapter headings and quickly selected five more, including a coffee table sized volume that included photographs of cave paintings and artifacts that had to have been religious in nature. I gave the section one more pass to make sure I'd gotten everything the library had on primitive man—all the other volumes were on primitive mammals and dinosaurs, as well as various geology books on the formation of the earth—then made my way back to where Martin was waiting.

When Martin saw me he nodded. "Found some?"

"Yeah," I said. "Let's get the hell out of here."

We approached the glass door of the library. Nothing lurked outside. Martin stepped outside first, pronounced the lot clear of danger, and we quickly made our way to the SUV and piled in.

We didn't relax fully until we were back on the highway heading toward the cabin. While Martin drove, I was able to turn my full attention to the volumes I'd pilfered from the library.

"Find anything that could be useful to us?" Martin asked.

"I hope so," I said, leafing through a section called Ancient Man's Spiritual Beliefs. "I have a feeling I have a few nights of research ahead of me."

Martin was silent for a moment as he drove. I skimmed the text. It was fascinating stuff, and the subject deserved my full undivided attention. I closed the volume and selected another one. There was no guarantee I'd find anything useful in these books. Even if the God of the New World, or whatever it was, had been written about and documented by anthropologists, it might be in a volume I didn't have. I couldn't think about that now, though. I had to plow ahead, learn what I could with what I had. Perhaps even the scant information I picked up from several sources could give us enough information to deal with this.

"Do you think that guy Stuart was telling us the truth last night?" Martin said finally, breaking the silence.

"I think so," I said. I closed the book I was purusing. "He sure sounded happy to be talking to us."

Martin said nothing as he piloted the SUV north. I could sense Martin hadn't made up his mind yet about Stuart and he confirmed it to me a minute later. "I don't know," he said, his voice giving a sort of sigh as he admitted this, a confused guilty tone. "Part of me wants to believe him. But I'm an atheist. I don't believe in God or the Devil, and to believe that an old god of primitive man has reawakened... that's very hard for me to swallow."

"I know what you mean," I said. "But we've seen the drawings. We've felt the presence. Surely you can't deny that you felt it."

Martin sighed. "You're right. I did feel something. I just..." His voice faltered. He was at a complete loss for what to say.

"I'm keeping an open mind about this," I said. The books rested in my lap. "I've learned to trust my instincts and feelings. I felt that presence back in California and Nevada. I saw those drawings. I saw how the primitives have been behaving, and I've heard anecdotal evidence from Wesley, and now from Stuart. That all tells me something's out there. I don't know if it's a god, or an alien creature. But it's there. It's there, and it's real, and we have to learn as much as we can about it if we want to stop it."

"Stop it?" Martin cast a curious glance my way. "How are we going to stop it?"

"I don't know," I said, feeling the weight of those implications crash down on me. Indeed, how could we stop it? "But we have to do something."

We were silent for twenty minutes or so, each of us digesting our own thoughts. It was true that even then I was thinking of ways to defeat this thing, whatever it was. My mind raced with a thousand scenarios. Maybe the thing was a real anthropomorphic being that could be killed. If so, all we had to do is blast it with a rocket launcher and be done with it. Maybe there was more than one of them. In that case, we'd have to communicate with others of our own kind, possibly through ham radio, to encourage them to take up arms and kill as many of the creatures as we could. I wondered if the thing was some kind of prehistoric creature modern anthropology never discovered and, for some weird reason, had been regenerated through means still unknown. I imagined organizing large masses of hunting parties via ham radio and killing hundreds of these things. I imagined things ten years in the future, where society was beginning to rebuild after killing the creatures and doing something about the primitive problem—either mass executions or imprisonments in laboratories to study them, to find a possible cure to flip the Neanderthal DNA strain back. Yes, I wanted things back the way they were. I wanted to unfuck what had been fucked up. I wanted to go back to the political bullshit, the wars, the economic instability and insecurity, the polluting of the air and water by large corporations; I wanted to go back to my career as a writer of screenplays and novels which really wasn't as glamorous as most people used to think it was, nor always financially stable. I wanted my life as father and husband, family nights at the house watching some Disney movie with Emily and Eric and Tracy, all snuggled up on the sofa together, quiet dinners with Tracy while the kids spent the evening at my parents house, then a night of slow lovemaking while the evening sky stretched on outside our bedroom window.

I wanted our old world back with all its beauty and horrible flaws.

Forty minutes away from the cabin, Martin interrupted my thoughts. "We need to warn Stuart to be careful in his communications to us. Wesley has a point about not being entirely trustworthy of the radio bands. If there's Stuart, and us, there's bound to be other survivors. And some of them might be hostile. Some might be run by little tin pot dictators with delusions of sweeping through the country and taking over just because they think they can."

"You're right, and I agree," I said. "We'll bring this up to him when we get back."

Little did we know that when we arrived back at the cabin we'd learn there really were more people like us. And they were closer than we thought.

Fourteen

We had just pulled the SUV up to the cabin when Lori rushed out on to the porch. "We've got a visitor," she said. She looked excited and scared.

"A visitor?" Martin asked as he stepped out of the driver's side.

"We've got him tied up in the garage," Lori said. Her face was flush with adrenaline. She was a bundle of energy as she stepped toward us and grabbed Martin by the arm. "Come."

"Is everything okay?" I asked, instantly worried about Tracy and Emily.

"We're okay, Tracy and I got him," Lori said. She smiled. "I think I may have hit him over the head too hard, but he was fucking trespassing as far as I'm concerned."

With that, Martin and I sprinted toward the garage where Tracy and Emily met us outside the side door. Tracy looked worried, too, and we were led inside the spacious garage, which housed a Hummer that Wesley had jump started and driven once. Martin and I kept asking what was going on. Emily had a confused look on her face and I could see Wesley standing near the corner talking to somebody who was sitting on the floor. Through the excited babble coming from Lori and Tracy, I managed to decipher the following: a young man had come across the cabin grounds, actually managing to get on the front porch before being tackled by Lori. During the ensuing fight, Tracy joined in when she heard the ruckus (Tracy had been in the kitchen with Emily and was no doubt acting on the instinct to protect our daughter when she went out to assist Lori). Together, the two women managed to subdue the man and Wesley ran out of the radio room a moment later. The three of them got the man tied up, and he'd been in the garage ever since, where he was undergoing questioning by Wesley.

As we stepped closer to the man in the corner I got my first good look at him. He was in his mid to late twenties with a slight build, about five foot four, shoulder length dirty blonde hair and a beard framing his face. He was a good-looking guy, yet rugged enough to pass for an outdoorsman type. He was dressed in knee-length shorts, hiking boots, and a tan tank top. The left side of his head was caked in blood and he was beginning to sport a large bruise near his temple where Lori had smacked him. He was sitting on the floor, his wrists bound behind his back, his ankles lashed together with rope. Wesley stood over him, hands on hips, a figure of authority.

"What's going on?" I asked.

Wesley turned to us, then turned back to the guy on the floor. "Let me go into the house and get you a washcloth to clean that blood up and find some first aid stuff for you, okay? I'll be back in fifteen minutes." Then Wesley turned and gestured for us to step outside. "Come on, let's go."

As he herded us out of the garage I made sure Emily was in tow and Lori closed the side door to the garage behind us as we exited. "Okay, what the hell happened?" Martin asked. "Who is he?"

Wesley said nothing as he led us to the porch. "Tracy, can you get the first aid kit and bring it to the porch? We'll need a damp cloth to clean him up before we go back to the garage."

"I didn't hurt him that badly, did I?" Lori asked as we stepped onto the porch.

Wesley shook his head. "Scalp wounds bleed like a bitch. He's fine, just a little banged up."

We found our way to our respective favorite seats. Emily sat on my lap while Tracy went into the house for the first aid kit. Emily had a more mature look about her as she listened to us grownups talk. She'd had to grow up a lot in the past month, and I felt bad about that.

Tracy returned a moment later with the first aid kit and sat down in the wicker chair. "Okay, who is he?"

"He says his name is Alex," Wesley said, looking pensive as he addressed us all. "Last name Haskins. He claims he lives about five miles northeast of here, on the outskirts of a very small town called Manning."

"What's he doing here?" Tracy asked. She still looked and sounded shaken up by everything.

"He says he's trying to find other people," Wesley said.

A reasonable enough answer. Part of me felt that need, too. Yet another part of me was wary of hooking up with more people.

"So he's been living by himself for the past month in Manning?" I asked.

"So he says," Wesley said, his eyes lighting on each of us. "He said he lives in a small house about a mile or so outside of town and that he's stayed put ever since learning what happened from watching TV the day the virus hit."

"He looked pretty well fed and groomed," Martin said, immediately looking suspicious. "Somehow I don't buy that."

"I didn't either at first, and when I brought that up to him he said he'd been out once to gather provisions from Manning's one general store." It was hard to read Wesley's features. Something told me that he didn't entirely trust what Alex had told him. "Again, that sounds reasonable enough. I started a pride and ego up interrogation on him and he immediately opened up to me. Told me that aside from that one trip into town, he hasn't been out of his immediate living area, and has been essentially holed up by himself in his home. Says he has a couple rifles and ammunition, has been washing his clothes in a creek near his home, and that he decided to head west to see if anybody else was still alive."

"Did he have prior knowledge of this cabin?" I asked. The sudden fear that perhaps others had knowledge of our location suddenly worried me.

"Not sure yet," Wesley said. "I literally have not had enough time to properly question him. This all happened ten minutes or so before you guys got back."

"We're the first people he's come across?" Martin asked.

"Yes."

"Do you believe him?"

"On that, yes, I do." Wesley regarded us. "On other things, I'm not so sure."

"What do you mean?" Tracy asked him.

"When I started questioning him I used the pride and ego up technique," Wesley explained. "It's one of several interrogation methods used by the military. You basically use it when the subject is already shattered emotionally. You build up their morale, say they acted like a hero, and that helps put them at ease. It gets them to open up. Alex was already scared and I wanted to put him at ease. He readily gave me some basic information: his name and age, where he lived, what he was doing the day the virus hit, what he used to do before it hit. He told me what the population of Manning was, about how it was basically deserted when he went there for food, but that he did see some bodies. When I asked him if he'd seen any primitives he told me no right away, and I capitalized on that. Told him he had remarkable wits and instincts, and that laying low was the best thing he could have done to survive. I kept it up, remarking that for one guy he had a hell of a tenacious will to survive and seek out others, that his skills at tracking were excellent. He let loose a little, and that's when he slipped up."

Wesley leaned forward, his voice lowered. We leaned closer to get a better listen. "He said to me, 'Yeah, we just laid low and lived by our wits. Went into town, got food and supplies, came back and just waited around until today when I decided it was time to head out and see if there was anybody else.' I asked him again if he'd seen any primitives, and he said no. Then I asked if he'd seen any other people beside us, and he said no real quickly. I didn't want to tip my hand too soon, so I remarked again on how skilled he was, and was just starting to butter him up by inviting him to come in and share with us what he'd learned, when you guys came home."

"So he's seen other people," I asked, picking up on what Wesley was insinuating right away. "He said 'we' instead of 'I'."

"Yeah," Wesley nodded. "He only said it the one time, and he acted real casual about it after that. And like I said, I didn't want to lay into him right away about it. And besides, you guys came back."

"So there's more than one of them," Martin said, that look of worry on his face again. "He could be part of another party like us."

"That's what the word 'we' denotes in my book," Wesley said. He looked grim.

"So what do we do?" Tracy asked.

Wesley picked up the first aid kit and damp washcloth. "Let's tend to his injuries. And then I want Martin, Tracy, and David to come with me to the garage. Tracy, I want you to help me treat his wounds. Ask him if he wants something to eat. If he does, go back to the house and get it for him. David, I want you to assist and observe. I'll introduce you. Just be nice and friendly with him but don't say anything personal. I'll resume my questioning of him and get him to tell us everything he knows."

"What about me?" Martin asked.

"I want you to remain outside," Wesley said. "Just in case we need some muscle."

"He's tied up," Lori said.

"I plan to untie him," Wesley said. "Part of my interrogation technique."

Lori raised an eyebrow.

"Maybe I should be present, then," Martin asked.

"No," Wesley said. "No offense, Martin, but you might come across as intimidating to him. I don't want that."

"Something tells me you've done this kind of thing before, Mr. Smitts," Tracy said. She was looking at Wesley as if she were seeing him for the first time. "What exactly did you do in the military?"

"That's classified," Wesley said. The way he said that was the first time I'd heard him use a tone of voice that bordered on official.

Before the silence could get uncomfortable, I broke it. "Okay, let's do this."

* * *

Tracy, Wesley, Martin, and I went back to the garage. Martin remained outside while the rest of us went in. Tracy had a damp cloth and a clean towel, and I carried the first aid kit. Alex looked up at us from the corner as we entered. He was slumped against the wall, worry etching his bearded face.

As we approached him I made out more details. His clothing was scuffed and dirty and his beard was untrimmed, as if he hadn't been able to shave for several weeks. Likewise, his long hair was tangled. As we approached him Wesley said, "Again, I'd like to apologize for what happened."

"I'm sorry too," Tracy said. She scrunched down and gently applied the damp cloth to the side of his head. "I know Lori didn't mean to hit you so hard."

Alex winced as Tracy gently cleaned the blood off his face. "It's okay. I probably would've done the same thing."

"Of course you would've," Wesley said. "I mean, you'd just be trying to survive, right? I can understand why you'd want to try scoping the area out to see if anybody else was out here. Non-primitives, if you know what I mean."

"That's a good word for them," Alex said. "Primitives. Those things are like a bunch of cave people."

"Yeah, they are." Wesley gestured to me. "This is David."

"Hello, Alex," I said. I set the first aid kit down on the floor near Alex's feet and opened it.

"Hey," Alex said in greeting. He was relaxing. He watched as I started rummaging through the first aid kit. Tracy got the wound clean and I saw that it was more a nasty scrape than anything deep and ugly. The bleeding had stopped and the blood and grit had been wiped from his face. Tracy turned to me. "Got some peroxide in there?"

"Yeah," I said. I pulled out the bottle and handed it to her and then rummaged for a bandage. "That'll probably need a big bandage."

Wesley stood slightly behind us as Tracy and I cleaned Alex's wound with the peroxide and bandaged him up. Alex winced slightly as the peroxide was applied. "Stings," he said. "How bad is it?"

"Not bad," Tracy said. "Just a real nasty scrape and a bruise. You'll survive."

"You hurt anywhere else?" I asked him.

"Not really," Alex said. "A little banged up along my left side when I was tackled."

"Let's see." Tracy said. She reached for his shirt and pulled it up over his ribcage. With gently probing fingers, she explored Alex's ribcage. "Hurt?" she asked him.

"A little," Alex said, wincing slightly.

"Nothing feels broken," Tracy said. She concluded her examination and pulled his shirt back down. "It'll probably feel sore and tender for a few days and it might bruise up. You don't feel any shortness of breath?"

"No," Alex said.

"You hungry? I can bring you something to eat."

"That would be great," Alex said. "I'm starving."

"Wonderful. How about a sandwich?"

"Sounds great."

"Ham and turkey on rye?"

"You got real meat? Nothing canned?" Alex looked like he'd just been offered a filet mignon at a five star restaurant.

"That's what the lady said," Wesley said. "We got ourselves a nice generator here and are able to power a freezer. Guy that lived here had plenty of frozen meat. We've been thawing it out gradually, got about another month or so left before we're going to have to start hunting."

"That would be great," Alex said. "With mustard and mayo if you got that?"

"I've got that." Tracy stood up, boxed up first aid kit and washcloths in hand. "You want American or Swiss cheese?"

"Swiss!" Alex looked ravenous, as if he hadn't had a good meal in weeks. He probably hadn't.

"Coming right up." Tracy exited the garage. "I'll bring you something to drink, too. Ice tea? Water?"

"Water would be great," Alex said.

"Okay."

Tracy exited the garage and closed the side door behind her.

Wesley and I turned to Alex, who looked visibly more relaxed. "How you feeling?" Wesley asked him.

"Okay. Hungry now. I haven't had much to eat in the past few days."

"And you're not hurt anywhere else?"

"No." Alex shifted position a little bit on the floor. "Just a little uncomfortable. This rope is kinda burning my wrists."

"What a dummy I am," Wesley said, dropping down to one knee. "Let me untie you. What was I thinking?"

I stood at sentry duty as Wesley untied the bonds from Alex's wrists. "Again, I'm real sorry for everything. It's just...well, you know, with everything that's happened we have to be careful. Know what I mean?"

"Oh, yeah, I know what you mean." With his wrists free, Alex began rubbing them with his fingers. He visibly relaxed even more as Wesley untied the bonds that held his ankles together. With his wrists unbound I could now see that Alex's arms were skinny; he had a sinewy muscular structure, like a young Iggy Pop.

When Alex was untied, Wesley helped him to a standing position. He was a short guy, about five foot four, and probably weighed all of 125 pounds. He shifted from foot to foot, shaking out the kinks in his limbs. "So have you seen other people?" I asked.

"No," Alex said casually. "When everything hit, I was at home. I worked as a driver for Mills Fleet and Farm and caught the news just before I left for work that day. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I just..." He looked from Wesley to myself. "...kinda stayed at home and tried calling my family to see if they were okay, but I couldn't get through to anybody."

"And you didn't go into town at all that day?" Wesley asked.

"No way. I was too scared."

"Did you catch any local news stations that day?" I asked.

"Yeah, KFBW News. That's out of Billings. They were saying that whatever was happening...it wasn't just confined to big cities, that rural communities were affected, too. That's why I stayed inside."

"But you eventually did go to town, right?" Wesley asked.

"Oh yeah," Alex said. He was opening up now, relaxing around us. "It was...shit," He ran his hand through his hair. "It was...it was fucking sad, man. There were bodies just lying in the street. Looked like something out of a western movie, like the aftermath of a shootout at the OK Corral. Manning was a ghost town. I could see some of the dead were, you know...primitives. Others were just...people that were killed by them." His face screwed up into a look of distaste. "It looked like some of them were eaten."

"Yeah, we've seen a lot of that," Wesley said. "On our way up here we saw a bunch of them huddled over a dead body just tearing into it. It was like watching a zombie movie. Night of the Living Dead or something."

"Yeah, but different," I chimed in. "Instead of zombies, we were watching wild people."

"That's what they are, aren't they?" Alex said. He was looking at us in a wide-eyed expression that bordered on fear and worry. "Is it true what they said on the news? That something made everybody turn into wild animals?"

"That's what it appears like," Wesley said. "We've seen them. We've had to kill dozens of them."

"No shit?" For the first time since I laid eyes on him, he appeared nervous.

"You haven't seen any of them?" Wesley asked.

"No," Alex said. Did he respond a little too quickly? I couldn't tell, but it sure felt like it to me. "I haven't seen any of these wild people, or normal people for that matter. Well, except for you guys."

"Well, like I said earlier, you did pretty damn well for yourself," Wesley said. "I honestly don't know how you did it."

"Thanks," Alex said, relaxing again. "It hasn't been easy, let me tell you."

"What have you been doing up there in Manning?" I asked.

"Just trying to stay away from these primitives," Alex said. "Trying to survive. I haven't been able to sleep much. I get maybe four or five hours and spend a lot of time on the porch with my Winchester, just standing guard. You know?"

Wesley and I nodded.

"During the day I sort of check out the area I live in, about a quarter mile perimeter. I live in a little house about a mile outside of Manning. And I just do that to make sure nobody else is coming near my property. The rest of the time I try the TV and radio, but I get nothing. My electricity is still on for some reason, but all the stations are off the air."

"You start thinking about winter?" Wesley asked. Despite the laid back atmosphere that Wesley had worked hard (yet subtly) to create, Alex had made no move to venture beyond the area he was standing. "From what I remember, winter is pretty harsh in these parts."

"I haven't thought about it yet," Alex said. "We've just been trying to survive day to day. It's hard enough just trying to get food."

I frowned, and Wesley jumped on this small window of opportunity right away. "So there are others than yourself?"

"Huh?" Alex asked.

"You just said 'we've just been trying to survive'. Is it more than just you at this house outside of Manning?"

For a brief second the slip-up registered on Alex's face in a quick succession of emotions: horror, surprise, then his gaze shifted to the left slightly, then back to us. "I mean, I've been trying to survive. It's just me. Sorry. Slip of the tongue.

"Oh," Wesley said. And then, as smooth as can be, Wesley changed the subject. "What does Manning have in the way of supplies?"

Alex seemed to lighten up at this question. "All kinds of stuff. I've got a shitload of fresh bottled water, a lot of canned goods, and a lot of weapons, mostly rifles. And ammunition."

"Really?" Wesley's eyebrow rose up. "That's good to hear. There's a gun store in Manning?"

"Nah, I got it from a guy's house. My wife and I, we were members of the Emergency Response Team in Manning, and some of those guys had a local militia. One of them kept a bunch of shit in his house."

"Emergency Response Team?" I asked.

"Yeah." Alex shrugged. "You know...kinda like a volunteer fire department."

"Ah." I nodded, pretending I understood. I'd never lived in a rural community before in my life and could only vaguely grasp what he was talking about.

"But they obviously do more than put out fires?" Wesley asked.

"Well, yeah," Alex explained. "We organized safety standards, emergency response standards with the county in the event of a chemical spill or a weather disaster, and we kept a huge stock of emergency supplies, everything from blankets to first aid stuff and medicine. We kept all that stuff at the fire station. That was the first place we went to when we got into town."

"We?" Wesley's tone of voice and body language made it clear that he'd caught that slip up.

"Shit!" Alex said, sighing in exasperation. Once again, that shift of the eyes from left to right. "I meant 'I' again, not 'we'."

"You sure?" Wesley asked. He took a single step toward Alex. He stood before him, hands on his hips, his gaze directed at the smaller man. For the first time since meeting him, Wesley looked intimidating. "This is like the second or third time you've said 'we' and the way you say it tells me you're talking about you and other people."

"Really, I just meant myself," Alex said. His voice actually cracked a little. There was no doubt in my mind now that Alex was lying about something. I could see it in his face, in his eyes; they had that deer-in-the-headlights quality about them.

The door to the garage opened and Tracy stepped in. "I've got your sandwich and water on the front porch. Come on out."

Wesley held a hand up, still facing Alex. "We're going to hold off on Alex's lunch for a moment, Tracy."

"Okay." Tracy didn't miss a beat; she stepped back outside and closed the door.

"Now level with me, Alex," Wesley said. He was in no way intimidating or putting forth a threatening air, but I could feel the tension in the garage rise. "I don't think you're being entirely truthful with us. Who are you talking about when you say 'we'?"

"Nobody," Alex said quickly. "Really, it was just a slip of the tongue—"

"A slip of the tongue because you weren't thinking about it. Which means you're referring to more than one person. You and another party, which could be one, two, maybe a dozen or more people. Level with us, Alex. How many people are in your party? You've seen my party, and you know we're just trying to make ends meet over here and survive. We could all benefit in this by teaming up together, don't you think?"

"Okay, look, I'm sorry if I misled you," Alex said. He was nervous and his speech was fast, as if he were rushing to get to the truth. "I don't have a party like you, it's just me and my wife. That's all."

"Well hell, why didn't you say that before?" Wesley asked.

"I...I didn't want to..." Alex licked his lips, once again nervously looking from left to right. "I just wanted her to be safe, okay? I just..."

Wesley nodded. "I understand. You were just being cautious."

"Yeah." Alex sighed. The slumping of his shoulders, the relaxing of his posture, was an indicator to me that Wesley had reached the truth. There was no other party like us. It was just Alex and his wife, and he was worried we might be a threat to her. That's why he wouldn't mention her.

Wesley patted Alex on the shoulder. "Completely understandable. Is she okay? Is she safe?"

Alex looked up at Wesley quickly, then back down. "Yeah, she's safe. She's back at the house."

Once again, I had the impression Alex was trying to hide something again. If Wesley caught the same vibe he didn't let on. He drew Alex forward and, arm around the younger man's shoulders, escorted him toward the garage door. "Well, let's get some food in you. You must be starved."

I followed Alex and Wesley out of the garage and Wesley's eyes locked with mine briefly on the way to the porch. I read the message behind them loud and clear: Alex still isn't telling us everything.

Fifteen

As we made our way out to the porch, Martin joined us. Tracy and Lori were waiting for us at the table. Alex's sandwich and drink were on a plate and Alex sat down and began to dig in. Wesley nodded at Alex. "Eat all you want. I'm gonna grab myself something to eat, too." Wesley stepped inside and I followed him while Tracy, Lori, and Martin stayed on the porch.

Emily was on the floor clutching her doll as Wesley and I entered the house. "I'll be in the kitchen," Wesley said.

I nodded and bent down to talk to Emily, who was playing on the dining room floor. "You okay, honey?"

Emily nodded. "Mommy told me to stay here with Mindy." Mindy was the doll's name.

"She's absolutely right," I told her. I tickled her tummy and that solemn face turned into a giggly one. "You stay here, okay? We just need to see if this guy your mommy and Lori caught is a good guy or a bad guy."

"He's a good guy," Emily said.

"He is?"

Emily nodded.

"How do you know?"

"I can tell," Emily said. Her little face was all business. "He's scared, but he's good."

Had Emily picked up a vibe from Alex? Was it instinct? I don't know. I ruffled Emily's hair, told her to be a good girl and stay in the living room while the grownups talked outside, stood up, and joined Wesley in the kitchen.

Wesley was making a sandwich. As I approached him he got right to the point. "I believe Alex is referring to his wife when he slipped up under questioning. I don't believe he's with other people. I think it's just the two of them on their own. But I get the feeling he's hiding something about her."

"Why would he do that?" I asked. "To protect her?" It made sense to me. In a post apocalyptic world, I was now very fearful that a marauding band of savages—normal men who'd turned bad—might happen upon us to rape and pillage like the Mongols or Vikings of old.

"Maybe," Wesley said. He slathered mayonnaise on his bread, laid on some thinly sliced ham and turkey breast. "I think it's something else, though. I think there's something wrong with her by the way he responded to my questions. He kept shifting his gaze to the left when he answered. That's a sign people give when they're lying."

"You think she's sick?"

"Maybe." Wesley finished making his sandwich. "It could be the reason why he's so far from his house. If I remember correctly, Manning is too small a town to have a decent pharmacy or medical center, but the town closest to us would have more options. I wonder if he was heading there for medicine or something."

I nodded. "Makes sense to me. How are we going to bring this up to him?"

"Leave it to me," Wesley said. He picked up his sandwich and headed outside. I followed.

When we got back outside I saw that Alex had polished off his sandwich. He was reclining in his chair, talking to Martin, Lori, and Tracy. They all looked up as Wesley and I joined them. "Enjoy your meal?" Wesley asked. He gave Alex a smile.

"Yeah, that was great," Alex said, grinning back. "Thanks."

"Alex was just telling us that he and his wife are only five miles or so from here," Tracy said.

"So we've heard," I said, sitting down beside her.

Wesley bit into his sandwich. "You any good at siphoning gas from vehicles?" He asked Alex.

"Not really, no."

"We'll teach you," Martin said. "It's how we were able to get out here in the vehicles we came up in."

"Does your house have a fireplace or a woodstove?" Wesley asked. Normally, Wesley didn't chew his food and talk at the same time. What was causing him to break this habit, I haven't a clue. To put Alex more at ease, perhaps?

"I got a fireplace," Alex said. He took a sip of water. "And I know I've gotta start getting wood for winter. I just...don't know where to store it."

"How big is your place?" Lori asked.

"Not very big at all. It's just a two bedroom, with a...whaddaya call it...a mudroom off the back, a kitchen, dining room, living room, and a bathroom."

"And you're pretty far out of town?" I asked.

He nodded. I could tell he was trying hard not to be nervous. "Yeah, I live off a dirt road."

"And your wife..." Wesley took another chomp off his sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. "What's her name?"

"Naomi," Alex said.

"Well, with every good man lies a good woman, and I'm willing to bet Naomi had as much a hand in your survival as you." Wesley took another bite of his sandwich.

"Yeah, she did," Alex said. His demeanor changed slightly. Where before his enthusiasm seemed genuine, his ease of manner seemed natural, now it seemed that he was trying to pretend everything was okay. "Like I said, she and I were on the Emergency Committee, so we gathered all the weapons and supplies we could. She also knew where all the emergency stash of food was kept at the fire station. All the canned goods and stuff. For some reason, the power was out in that part of town, but she was also able to get the generator on at the fire station and get on the CB radio, too."

"Oh yeah?" Martin raised his eyebrows. I glanced at him quickly. Don't tip that hand yet. Martin got the message and said nothing.

"Yeah, but I don't know anything about running it. I've been trying, but..." Alex let that trail off. He took a sip of water, looking uncomfortable, or maybe embarrassed.

"Does Naomi know how to run it?" Lori asked.

"No," Alex said. A little too quickly again? It was hard to tell.

"Is Naomi okay?" Wesley asked. He'd polished off his sandwich almost as fast as Alex had finished his. "She isn't sick or anything, is she?"

"No, no, she's fine," Alex said. He turned to Tracy. "Can I get another sandwich?"

"Sure." Tracy got up and headed back into the house.

"Well, we'd like to meet her," Wesley said. He was leaning back in his chair, casual, cool, collected. "How about after lunch we head back to your place?"

"I don't think that'll be a good idea," Alex said. His voice had a slight stammer to it. "Naomi...well, she's not sick, but she hasn't really been feeling well and—"

"So she's not well?" Wesley asked.

For a minute that almost broke him. Alex sighed, closed his eyes, and appeared to muster his emotional reserve. I thought he looked close to tears. "I'm sorry, but no...she's not well. She's not sick, but..."

"But what?" Wesley asked. Now we were all learning forward expectantly. Lori's features were soft, sympathetic. We were flying by the seat of our pants now.

"What's wrong with Naomi, baby?" Lori asked.

And then Alex started to cry.

He buried his face in his hands and the tears fell. His sobs were heart wrenching, from the gut. As he cried he tried to speak, but his emotional outpouring was making his voice break down even more. "I...I...don't know...don't know what happened...I...please...please don't hurt her!"

Wesley's posture and voice were soft, sympathetic, caring. He leaned forward, rested his hand on Alex's shoulder. The supportive fatherly figure comforting the younger son. "We want to help, Alex. Believe me, we aren't about to hurt you or Naomi. But you've got to level with us. We can't help her if we don't know what's wrong—"

"She became one of them!" Alex suddenly screamed amid his sobs. He looked at us, his face red and damp with tears. "She's become one of those things! She's become one of them and I don't know how it happened!" And then, as if a great weight had been taken off his shoulders, he collapsed over the table, burying his face in his hands, and sobbed.

Hearing this was like being hit in the face with a sledgehammer.

It seemed that we all froze in shock. I looked at him, and while I could see that what he was telling us was the truth, what we heard was so horrible, so unimaginable in our collective psyches, that it was too much for us to bear. Tracy came back out on the porch and I turned to her. She had a look of absolute horror on her face; she'd heard every word he'd said.

I looked at my clan and read the emotion in their eyes—pure terror, panic, and fear. Only Wesley refused to make eye contact with us. He was looking at Alex, watching him. It was hard to get a read on him, but I couldn't help but notice the subtle emotion pass through his features and, just as quickly, go away as he regained control.

Alex sobbed. His shoulders shook. He was crouched over the table, face down, arms over his head as he cried. In between his sobs were pleas for help. "...don't know...how it...happened...don't know...how it...happened...oh... God..."

I felt somebody approach and looked at the sliding glass door to see Emily standing there. She was holding her doll, looking worried. She made no move to come outside. I think she knew we were hearing some very bad news.

"How long ago did Naomi turn?" Wesley asked softly.

"Auh...about...about a week ago," Alex said through his sobs. He wiped his eyes, tried to get control of himself. "It happened about a week ago...it just..." His face screwed up, threatening another outburst of sorrow. "I don't know how it happened...oh my God, I don't know how it happened, I thought...I thought..."

I thought it was over, I finished the thought for him. Tracy was at my side now, Emily clinging to her leg. I felt a chill run down my spine. I felt the collective vibe of our clan—Martin, Lori, Wesley, Tracy and Emily—react at what Alex had just said.

If what he was saying was right, the virus...or whatever it was that caused the flip, was still working its way through the human population.

"Jesus," Wesley breathed. For the first time since we met him, he looked afraid.

"Naomi came home the day everything happened," Alex said between sobs. As he told us his story he seemed to gain better control of his emotions. He wiped his eyes with his fingers. "She works at the bank as a teller. I was at home. I worked swing shift and was still in bed. I didn't even know anything was happening until she ran in the house. She looked...frantic. She told me people in the bank, tellers, customers, you name it, suddenly started...you know...turning into these wild primitive things except for one of them...some old farmer who'd come in to deposit a check. The ones that were closest to him turned on him and they all just...sort of piled on him. Fucking tore him to pieces. Naomi ducked beneath her station as they passed her by and just started tearing into this farmer. That's when she started hearing the shit outside, heard the police sirens. It was like the others forgot she was even there, and she...man, God must've been on her side or something, but she saw the window of opportunity and took it. She dashed out the back door, got into her car and got the hell out of there."

Alex continued, speaking in a less shaky voice now. He took a sip of water. "She saw the shit go down in Manning. She like...got the hell out of there and got on Route 1, turned the radio on and heard what was going on. We don't have a cell phone so she couldn't call me. She got home, woke me up, and she was in hysterics. We turned the TV on and that's when..."

"It was like that for us, too," I murmured. I felt Tracy's hand on my shoulder. Alex's recount was bringing the memories of that first day back in awful clarity.

Alex took another sip of water. That seemed to be calming his nerves. He wasn't crying anymore, but his face was red and still wet with tears. "I'm sure it was that way for everybody. Anyway...Naomi flipped out. She...she...well, she was very religious. I mean, I believe in God too, but she took it to the extreme. She got down on her knees and started prayin' and...the TV was still on and the news was just getting worse. I turned the TV off and we sat on the sofa for a while in the dark. She told me more about what she saw and that's when she told me that...well, she was convinced it was Armageddon. That the end times had finally come."

"She thought it was the end of the world," Wesley said.

"Not just the end," Lori said. "But the beginning of Satan's reign on earth." She was looking at Alex with what seemed to be understanding. "And I bet as the days went on, she began to question why it hadn't happened the way she'd been taught to believe. Why she hadn't simply been sucked right into the sky by the Lord and taken to heaven."

"Yeah." Alex said. He seemed to shiver. "At first I was like...I didn't want to hear it, you know? I just wanted to...find out what was going on and...do whatever I could to keep us safe. Naomi wasn't a...I mean, I don't want you to have the impression that she was a religious nut or anything. She wasn't like those crazy Pentecostal people that dance with snakes and stuff, but she had her beliefs and they were very strong. But she...had her...I call it her earthy side, too. She liked good rock and roll and she could drink me under the table when she had a mind to. She could shoot a mean game of pool—we used to go to Hess's Bar and Grill every other Friday and drink beer and shoot the shit with our friends from work and play pool. She could let loose, and she did. But she was a Christian woman and she read the Bible and went to church every Sunday. I tried to go most Sundays, but I just wasn't..." He shrugged. He looked at us, as if he wanted us to understand his position. "I mean, I learned all that stuff in Sunday School when I was a kid. I didn't feel the need to go every Sunday."

Tracy nodded. "I know what you mean."

"I don't know what it was that set Naomi off, but...she was really scared it was Armageddon." Alex took another sip of water. "I was watching CNN at one point and they were talking about some DNA thing...something about a Neanderthal strain and—"

"The Neanderthal strain in human DNA," Martin said. "We heard that, too."

"Yeah. And anyway, I was like, 'Naomi, come here, listen to this, they think they know what's causing this.' And I tried explaining to her what they thought it might be but she wouldn't listen. Said she didn't believe or trust the scientists, that we had to trust God to take us. So I sat on the couch and watched the TV until the station went off the air, and she sat in the kitchen and prayed."

As Alex told his story I could feel myself being drawn into it. It was easy to imagine myself as him; alone with his wife, cut off from the world. It sounded terrifying and claustrophobic.

"Things got kinda better after a few days," Alex continued. "We had food in the house and the electricity hadn't been cut off yet. There wasn't any news on the TV or the radio. After a week, we armed ourselves and tried going to town. I told Naomi, first sign of trouble we're getting the hell out. We still had gas in the truck, so we drove. That's when Naomi suggested raiding the fire station and hitting up the supplies from the Emergency Task Force. She like...really took to that...really took charge. That's when we saw the bodies...saw the things...the primitives...had left."

Suddenly, what the Primitives were drawing on walls and rocks came to mind. "Did you see any weird graffiti?" I asked. "Like a figure with wings that was drawn in chalk?"

Alex frowned and shook his head. "I don't remember. Why?"

"Just curious," I said.

"Tell us the rest," Wesley encouraged.

There wasn't much to tell. The trip to town had been within a week of civilization falling. Naomi had suggested snagging the CB radio from the fire station, which they did. "Only thing was I forgot to bring the manual," Alex said sheepishly. "I tried messing with it on my own, but then the power at our place finally went off."

About three weeks after the fall of civilization, Naomi started retreating again. "Both of us went through hard times thinking about our parents and stuff," Alex said. "And then...she started...I don't know...started getting mad at God. She was having a tougher time facing what had happened than I was. It was like...she couldn't believe God would...I don't know...have Armageddon happen this way. Like, why didn't he just take us up to heaven instead of having these...well, she was starting to call the primitives demons because she started to believe all these people had become possessed by the devil. She said if I'd have seen them, I would have felt the same way."

"I can see what she means," Lori said, nodding. "It was like this happened all at once, like Satan just slipped his fingers into everybody's mind like putting on a glove and started messing with people. Controlling them."

"Yeah," Alex said. He nodded at Lori. "That's right. And she just didn't understand that. She believed that we weren't supposed to be hurt when this happened. That we were just supposed to be snatched right up into heaven, in our actual physical selves."

"So she was thinking the primitives were killing people to release their spirits into heaven?" Wesley asked.

"No. The primitives—the demons—are Satan's minions, set to roam the earth for one thousand years. We were supposed to be physically snatched up and taken to heaven. Believers in Jesus. Born-Again Christians. The unsaved were supposed to be left here on earth."

"So in her mind, God had abandoned her," Lori said.

"No, she didn't feel God abandoned her. She just didn't understand why He was allowing it to happen this way. She was confused. She started...retreating from reality more. Reading the Bible and the Jenkins and LaHaye books she's got, trying to find meaning so she could understand everything. And then...I guess that went on for maybe five days. She just retreated emotionally, wouldn't talk about normal things with me. I'd try to ask her what she felt about fortifying the house for winter and she said she didn't care about that, she wanted to know whether she'd gotten wrong with God or wanted to know why she didn't understand His word. And then..." His voice threatened to crack again. "Then it happened."

Alex took a deep breath, his eyes closed as if he were mustering the nerve to relive his nightmare again, then continued. "We were in the kitchen. I was taking stock of my ammunition, was getting my gear ready to go hunting. I'd seen some deer near the house the past few days, and there were no rangers around to enforce hunting season. We needed meat, so I figured I might as well try to get us some. Anyway, I wanted her help in bringing some stuff outside. She kept telling me that the demons were gathering. She said she could see them in her mind. They were all gathering in one place, getting ready for something and—"

"She said they were gathering?" Wesley asked. I leaned forward in anticipation at this too. Martin and I traded a look. This sounded like what Stuart told us last night. "They were gathering in a herd, or a community or something?"

"I don't know," Alex said, shaking his head in frustration. "I wasn't paying attention. To me, she was going off the deep end. She was losing her mind and I was becoming a little bit afraid of her."

Alex paused for a moment to take a sip of water and resumed. "I was...I wasn't paying attention to what she was saying. I hadn't been for a few days. It was the same old thing about the demons. When she started making the noise...when she started growling...that's what snapped me out of it. I turned to her and she was standing at the stove, her head kinda bowed down. She was making these weird noises, like animal grunts. I thought she was sick at first and was starting to step toward her to see if she was okay when she suddenly turned around and...I saw her face...and I saw that she was...it wasn't Naomi anymore..."

Remembering Jessica Rendell's voice in my ear that day telling us that Eric, our son, had attacked and killed another child that morning in day care came to mind. I could only imagine the horror Alex had gone through.

"She...she came at me...she attacked me," Alex continued, his voice cracking. "And I fought her off. She was like a wild thing, kicking and biting and scratching at me. I was yelling at her to stop but she was growling and spitting at me and...I knew it wasn't Naomi anymore, but I was yelling at her to stop, hoping in the back of my mind I'd get through to her, but it wasn't working. I knew she was going to kill me, and I managed to push her back and grab a skillet off the kitchen counter. As she came at me again I hit her over the head with it and knocked her out.

"Something...I don't know if it's instinct or what...told me to lock her in the mudroom, so I did. I dragged her in there and locked her in. When she woke up she...she was still wild. She started hammering on the walls and throwing herself against the door like a caged animal. She's been in there ever since." He looked at us. No longer crying, Alex still bore a look of sadness on his face. "I've been feeding her through a small window from outside. Every time I throw food in she reaches out and tries to grab my arm to pull me in. I know if I set foot inside there she'll try to kill me. She...she just paces the mudroom all day like an animal and at night...oh God, at night she howls like a fucking dog. Sometimes she sleeps, but mostly she howls. It's...unearthly. It's like she's baying to...something...maybe her own kind...to come rescue her."

A collective shudder ran through the rest of us. I felt Tracy's hand firm on my shoulder and I pulled Emily close to my side. Had we been sitting home as a family watching a horror movie about this, Emily would have hid her eyes, but for some strange reason she was riding this out. She was totally absorbed; fearful, but absorbed.

"I just...after awhile, I just didn't know what else to do." He looked at each of us with an imploring gaze. "That's why I left...to find some help for her. To see if maybe there was a cure out there...if somebody...if there's some order left in the world..."

His eyes lit on each one of us and I felt a shadow darken us all. Last evening's conversation with Stuart came to mind. The poor bastard had no idea how bad things had gotten.

"Please..." he said. His eyes met mine, held them. "Please help me."

I tore my gaze away from him, looked at Martin, then at Wesley. Tracy stiffened beside me.

Wesley drew a little closer to Alex. "Alex, I want you to listen to me very carefully."

And then Wesley told Alex what he needed to know.

The shadow that afternoon grew darker.

Sixteen

Alex took the news better than I thought he would.

It took Wesley fifteen minutes to tell him an abbreviated version of our story and last night's events in the radio room. He concluded with today's events, telling Alex that Martin and I were returning from a trip to the library when he'd come across the property. "I have a rendezvous on the air with Stuart today at four," he said. He patted Alex's shoulder. "I'm sorry the news isn't good, Alex. I truly am."

Alex sighed. He seemed resigned to this sad fact now. "To tell you the truth, something in the back of my mind told me that this is it. That we're finished as a race." He looked at us. "But that thing you described? That this guy Stuart says he saw? Hearing you talk about it made me think of what Naomi was telling me in the days before she turned."

"And what's that?" Martin asked.

"When she was talking about the demons gathering... that the primitives were gathering together, I chalked it up to her...her religious mania, I guess. But still, something in the back of my mind couldn't help but think 'what if it's true?' What if the primitives were gathering with the help of some force? Doesn't that sound crazy?"

"No, it doesn't," I said. Had he felt the same force we all had? "I've thought the same thing."

"I can't just...leave her there," Alex said. "Do you understand? Even if she's...an animal now...I can't just leave her in there to starve!"

Wesley traded a glance with me and I read the intention loud and clear in his eyes. We've got to go out there and kill her.

As much as part of me agreed with that sentiment, I couldn't let on to Alex that this was the game plan.

"I agree we have to do something," Martin said. Whether he'd picked up on the side-glances exchanged between Wesley and me was hard to tell, but the guy seemed to zero in on our subliminal communication. "She'll be okay out there by herself tonight. That should give us time to try to come up with some kind of plan."

"What kind of plan?" Alex said.

"A way to help her," Martin said quickly.

"How?"

"We'll think of something," Wesley said. "But Martin's right. We can't just rush over there now without thinking this through. If we open the door to that mudroom, she'll just be on attack mode. We're going to need some kind of way to subdue her so she doesn't hurt herself or us."

I could see how this could turn into a full-fledged debate that would go on for hours. I glanced at my watch. It was almost four. "Tell you what," I said. "Wesley, why don't you get on the radio with Stuart and let him know what's going on. See what else you can find out. Lori and Tracy can help Alex get some rest. He needs it. Martin and I will come up with a way to help Naomi. Besides, I've got some research to do from our library trip. I might learn something that might help."

"That's a good plan." Wesley rose to his feet. He nodded at me; he understood what I was getting at perfectly. We'd reconvene in private to compare notes later, out of Alex's earshot. "How about we meet-up at dinner?"

And with that we broke up the current discussion. Tracy and Lori led Alex to the living room and made the sofa comfy for him to lie down on. Wesley headed off to the radio room to make his appointment with Stuart. I ushered Emily inside the house and calmed her down; she was starting to cry, and under normal circumstances I would not have allowed her to listen to Alex's story. But these were different times. "Mommy and I aren't going to let anything happen to you," I told her at one point. I was kneeling in front of her, at her eye level, and managed to calm her frayed nerves. "Do you understand? You're safe with us."

Once I'd gotten her calmed down, she hugged me. "I'm going to go play with my dollies," she said.

"Okay."

I watched her gather her toys from the living room floor and head upstairs. I knew she was retreating emotionally, was going to immerse herself in play to forget about the traumatic story she'd just heard. I wished I could go with her to help alleviate those fears and play with her, but I couldn't. Not then. I had to start cracking those books to find some clues on the primitives and their strange god.

Opposite the radio room, on the other side of the house, was a room that had once served as the former owner's home office. It was lined with cherrywood bookshelves and office furniture. A large desk took up a portion of the wall with a computer, laser printer, and telephone. I don't think anybody had bothered to turn the computer on since we'd settled here. I brought the books I'd gathered at the library into this room and sat down, ready to begin my research, when Tracy walked in.

She closed the door and I saw she looked troubled. "Is Emily okay?" she asked. "Where is she?"

"Upstairs in our room. She's fine." I gave her a brief recap of my attempt to calm Emily's fears and Tracy nodded. Somehow, I had the impression that her troubled state was not for our daughter, but for our new visitor.

"I'll see how she is in a minute," Tracy said. She looked at me, touched my forearm lightly. "I have to talk to you about Alex."

"Okay," I said, curious.

"Keep your voice low," she whispered.

I nodded.

"I know that we're going to have to kill Naomi," she said. Her voice cracked when she voiced what had been in my mind the moment we heard that Alex's wife had turned primitive. Her eyes welled with tears. "And...I just want to...tell you that...when you do it, try to do it when Alex is...asleep or something. Do it when he's here at the house and asleep and..."

"I understand," I said. I drew Tracy into my embrace and she melted against me. She buried her face in my T-shirt, stifling her sobs. I held back my own emotion as I held her.

"He doesn't have to see it happen," Tracy said. She wiped her eyes, took a deep breath. "He doesn't even have to know." She looked up at me, still troubled but in better control. "I know it's the only way. She'll starve to death in her house and...we can't release her. She's a danger to all of us. The longer she stays alive, the more she puts us in danger."

Tracy was right. Who knows if Naomi's howling was some primitive form of communication? Suppose other primitives heard her and were even now heading toward Manning like a mass of cavemen, drawn by her siren song?

Suppose she was able to draw the God of the New World to our location?

"You're right, he doesn't need to see it," I said. "If we can get him to sleep, maybe Wesley and I can head over there this afternoon. We can do it quickly, remove the body and bury it somewhere, clean the room up, make it look like she broke out somehow."

"Yes." Tracy looked better now. She still looked sad and troubled by what we'd just heard. No doubt she was disturbed by the very idea of killing another human being in order to put her out of her misery. "I know it sounds cruel but...it's the only way. He broke down again as Lori and I led him to the living room. I can tell he loves Naomi dearly and...I just don't want him to have to see it."

"Of course." I kissed Tracy's forehead. "Listen, do we have any tranquilizers?"

"Yeah. I can crush a dose up and put it in some iced tea."

"Good. Slip it to him now. I think the sooner we can do this, the better."

"Okay." Now it was her turn to kiss me. She hugged me again and I held her. "I wish this wasn't happening," she said.

"So do I, honey," I said. "So do I."

* * *

As it turned out, I didn't crack the books that day. Instead, immediately after Tracy left, I headed to the radio room where I heard the tail end of Stuart telling Wesley about some brewing trouble.

"It sounds like a pretty good-sized party," I heard Stuart say as I walked into the room. "If I'm correct in my interpretation, it sounds like they've destroyed a good portion of Nashville."

Curious, I raised my eyebrows at Wesley. What's going on?

"David Spires just joined us," Wesley said. He motioned for me to close the door. I did. Then, Wesley turned around and told me the latest.

Early this morning, Stuart heard a transmission from another party of normal humans. It was a large one of about two hundred. And it was our worst nightmare realized.

"They're run by five or six guys who broke out of a state prison," Wesley told me. "And they're on this marauding spree, just gathering people under them, growing bigger and bigger as they head west. One of them sounds like he knows what he's doing. I don't know if he's an ex-general or whatever, but he seems to know how to hold these people together."

Stuart helped Wesley fill me in. "They've commandeered a bunch of luxury RVs, and they've got weapons out the wazoo. It sounds like they've organized teams. One team is in charge of procuring and preparing food, another is in charge of the maintenance of the vehicles, another in charge of administering healthcare. The largest group is what I'm calling the warmongers. They're like...crackpot generals, totally absorbed in moving from city to city and capturing as many people as possible."

"Capturing people?" I asked.

"Oh yeah, capturing people," Stuart said. "They're killing primitives wherever they encounter them, but when they come across normal people, they capture them. If they meet resistance from men, they're killed. The women are captured, then raped repeatedly and forced into prostitution to serve the guys that join up. They've got a traveling bordello. And the kids...they're used as slave labor."

"Shit," I muttered.

"I just happened to stumble across their broadcast," Stuart continued. "They're broadcasting on an open transmission. I don't know why, because I would think that anybody left that's technically savvy and has the right equipment like me could stumble on to what they're saying."

"Maybe they aren't very smart," Wesley said.

"Yeah, maybe. Anyway, what I've learned from listening to them is that it sounds like the original core group banded together in the days following the...you know...the turning or whatever...they banded together to fight the primitives. But eventually as the weeks went on and they drew more people they...well, I think they just went mad."

"Mob psychosis," I muttered. "Use the right buzzwords under the right condition, you can whip a crowd of normally peaceful, law abiding citizens into a violent mob."

"Exactly," Stuart said. "Anyway, they're near Memphis now and it sounds like they're continuing west along Interstate 40. There's a group of about twenty of them about five miles ahead clearing the roads. And they're also reaching out to other bands of people through their CB broadcasts. That's how I initially heard it."

"So they're drawing people to them and when those who answer meet up with them, they're pretty much taken by surprise," Wesley mused.

"Yeah, that's what it sounds like." Stuart sighed. "They're in contact now with one group of people in Mississippi. They're actually camped out near Memphis waiting for this other band of people to meet up with them. These Mississippians, they're broadcasting on an open network too, and if I reach out to them, this other group will hear me."

"But they can't tell where you're broadcasting from, right?" I asked.

"No, but who knows what kind of equipment these people have? They might have sensors, receivers that transmit my station's call letters. Some receivers transmit call letters and geographic locations. I can't chance it, as much as I want to." Stuart's voice trailed off. There was silence for a moment. When he came back on he sounded troubled. "This group of people they contacted...there's three women, five men, and two very young children."

I picked up on the implications immediately. So did Wesley.

"Wesley told me about your situation with Alex," Stuart said, changing the subject effortlessly. "And my suggestion to you is to do it right away. And do it quick."

Wesley and I traded a glance. I nodded. Yes, we were on the same wavelength, all right. But what a hell of a situation to be in.

"I agree," I said, lowering my voice. "And things are underway as we speak."

"Good." Stuart paused again, then said, "Godspeed. Over and out."

"Over," Wesley said, and signed off.

We sat in the radio room for a moment collecting our thoughts. I finally broke the silence. "Tracy's going to make sure he goes to sleep. We should leave in about thirty minutes. I don't want to have to do this after night falls."

"I agree," Wesley said quietly.

"It should just be you and me," I continued. "I need Martin here. I'd rather be here myself, but I can't let you go out there by yourself."

Wesley nodded. "Agreed again." He sighed. For the first time, Wesley looked older than his forty-something years. I could see the gray in his hair, which was growing at a rapid pace from his military-style buzz cut. "I have a feeling that the moment we open the door to that mudroom she'll come rushing out. Should be a straight shot."

"Yeah," I said, nodding. What I neglected to say was, should be.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost four-thirty. Hopefully Alex would be in deep slumber by five and would not awaken until long after Wesley and I returned.

I sighed. "Let's get this going then."

Wesley and I rose to our feet and exited the radio room.

Seventeen

As we drew closer to Manning I felt my stomach churn with dread.

I was riding shotgun in Wesley's jeep, which he kept fueled and ready at all times. After making sure Alex was fast asleep in the living room on the sofa (helped by a dose of sleeping pills Tracy had slipped into a glass of iced tea), Wesley and I gathered our weapons: a bowie knife and a tomahawk for me, as well as my trusty .45 and the M4, a Glock 9mm handgun and a M4 for Wesley. We had enough firepower to take down a small city, but we knew we weren't going to need it. Our mission was to kill and dispose of one primitive-turned woman. In theory, that shouldn't be too difficult.

After snagging a map of the area, we set off. And the closer we got to Manning, the more my trepidation rose.

Of all the primitives I've killed—and that has to number in the hundreds as of this writing—I've never been bothered by any of them with the exception of this one. For some reason, this act of premeditating the murder of Alex's wife was having an emotional effect on me I could not deny. It was easy enough to kill primitives who were charging at you with their war whoops, bearing their crude weapons, ready to kill you. At that point, instinct simply took over.

But this one was different.

Until a few days ago—almost one full month after the end of the world—Naomi had been a real human being.

Had she turned and somehow managed to escape her home and never be seen again...well, we'd probably never come across her. Or if we did it would be during some battle between us and a band of primitives and we'd resort to killing her in self-defense.

That was a very different scenario than the one we were about to undertake.

Naomi was now confined to a single room in her home.

And we were traveling out there to put her out of her misery. Like shooting a horse that has a broken leg and can no longer run the Kentucky Derby.

And that bothered me.

As we approached the Manning city limits, I gripped the stock of my M4 and scanned the streets ahead of me. I had changed into a pair of jeans and boots, with a long-sleeve chambray shirt. Tracy had braided my hair and it now hung down my back. I grew tense, priming myself for what we were about to do.

Prior to falling asleep, Lori asked Alex where he lived. "On Wander Road, just past Mill Lane," he'd said, his voice drowsy. "Our place sits back about twenty yards from the road. Green house with white trim." He said something else we couldn't make out and then the sleeping pills took over.

"When we find Mill Lane we'll leave the vehicle there," Wesley said softly as he drove. "We'll make our way to the house on foot. Should be half a mile, and I don't want to risk alerting Naomi that we're coming."

"She'll probably hear something once we approach the house," I said.

"Yeah, but she won't hear a car engine," Wesley said. "That's key. The more an element of surprise we can achieve, the easier this is going to be."

I nodded.

"It sounds like there's a backdoor to the mudroom," Wesley continued. We were cruising through the north side of Manning now, and the sight of decaying bodies littering the streets was overwhelmed by the stench of carrion that lingered in the air. "She'll definitely hear us as we circle around the back. Once we verify her location, I'll take up position approximately fifteen yards back. You approach the door. You got his keys?"

I patted the front pocket of my jeans where Alex's house keys were. I'd pilfered them prior to our departure. "Got them right here."

"When I give you the signal, unlock the door, open it, and step out of the way. She'll probably come charging out and that'll give me a clean shot. If she doesn't rush right out, I'll try to bait her into coming out. If that doesn't work, we go in formation style. I'll approach the house and as I do, you step back from the door and cover me. Follow my lead."

"Okay." I could feel my heart start to hammer.

"Once she's dead we'll clean up, then make it look like she broke out. We'll carry the body back to the jeep and drive back through town. We'll stop on Route 7 and bury her there." In addition to our weapons, a first aid kit and some water, we'd packed a tarp and a pair of shovels in the rear of the jeep. "My goal is to be back by six at the latest."

I said nothing as we left Manning. We were entering open country again. The area was rolling hills with spots of forest here and there. I consulted the map and saw we had another mile to go.

Wesley made a right on the first road we came to and followed it. I could feel the pressure and fear of what we were about to undertake come down on me. It had been a month since I'd had to engage in any kind of armed battle for my life. In a way, that ride to Alex's house to put down Naomi was more nerve-wracking than the half dozen or so skirmishes I'd participated in the week following the collapse of civilization. Maybe it didn't seem as bad then because everything happened so suddenly and I didn't have time to think about it; I'd just acted on instinct.

I took a deep breath to calm myself down. Closed my eyes, fingered the trigger guard of my M4. Took stock of the situation. We would be okay. We had a plan, and we had superior weaponry and we were skilled killers (something I never knew I'd admit to myself). We had a technological and mental advantage. This was going to be easy.

But there was something in the back of my mind that didn't sit right with me.

It grew stronger as we reached Mill Lane. Wesley pulled the jeep over and killed the engine. I hopped out, reached into the back of the vehicle and pulled out the tarp. Wesley checked his armament and nodded. "Okay, let's go."

It took us less than fifteen minutes to make the half mile hike to Alex's home. As we approached, I listened for any unusual sounds—the howling of primitives, the crunch of underbrush beneath bare feet—and heard nothing. One of the biggest hindrances was the amount of cover this area had. While not as heavily wooded as the Sierra Mountains, there were enough trees and dense underbrush for primitives to hide themselves in. They could be sneaking up on the cabin at the same time we were, drawn by Naomi's crazed howling. They could be right at—

"We're here," Wesley whispered.

We were at the mouth of a gravel driveway that wound through some trees. At the end sat a green house with white trim, just as Alex described it.

Weapons raised, stocks against our shoulders, we stepped onto the driveway and made our way toward the house.

And except for the sound of birds twittering in the trees overhead, I didn't hear a sound.

We breasted the side of the house, heading toward the back. I had reached a sort of Zen state as I crept behind Wesley, rifle muzzle pointed at the house. I was light-footed and as sleek as a panther.

And I could feel something—call it what you want, a spiritual force, whatever. It was there, and it was heavy.

As we reached the rear of the house, a guttural howling rose from the back of the structure. There's no word in the English language to describe what that sounded like. Best I can describe was that it sounded like a cross between a large gorilla and a voice-over effect from a demonically possessed woman. Remember how Linda Blair sounded in The Exorcist when she became possessed? Think of that growl and you'll understand why the hairs on the back of my arm rose when I heard it.

Wesley nodded at me and we stepped toward the back door of the house. As we approached, the thing inside the house continued howling. There were grunting and thumping noises. I saw a quick flurry of movement from a dirty window that sat about four feet from the ground, a window that would have been too small for a human being to squeeze through, then a hard thump that shook the door in its frame. Another growl, more primitive and insane sounding than before. My stomach plunged down an elevator shaft.

Wesley stopped and assumed the firing position, the stock of the M4 resting against the hollow of his shoulder, lining up the sights for his shot. I crept forward, slung the barrel of my rifle over my shoulder, making sure the safety was off. Then, I fished for Alex's keys, took them out, and approached the door.

Naomi's howls and thrashings grew more frenzied as I approached the door. I was still in that Zen state; it felt like I was floating ever so lightly on my feet as I reached toward the door and then, at Wesley's signal, quickly unlocked the door and wrenched it open.

There was a howl of anger from inside the mudroom and I felt something rush out the door. There was a burst of gunfire—perhaps six shots—and then I heard something heavy thump to the ground outside. I quickly drew my rifle up, and stepped away from the door.

Wesley was approaching the body that lay on the ground face down about ten feet from the now opened doorway. I caught my first look at Naomi and couldn't help but feel a trifle emotional. Even though I couldn't see her face, she had to have been a beautiful woman before the primitive nature gained control of her. I don't mean beautiful in the traditional sense that we've come to understand the word. I'm not talking about the flawless beauties of certain actresses and models. I'm talking about the beauty that comes from within one's soul. The woman who lay before me was not what one would call slim; she was verging on chunky, with matted brown hair. She was wearing a soiled pair of jeans and a filthy T-shirt that was rapidly turning deep red from the gunshots that had torn through her upper body.

As I stepped around to the other side of her, I got a good look at her face for the first and last time. Lying on her right cheek, her eyes forever open, Naomi struck me as being a plain, yet lovely woman, the kind you could joke around with at a backyard barbecue, who would always be quick with a joke, a word of wit and laughter. Her eyes were green. She had a small, perky nose, and a mouth that would have created dimples in her cheeks when she smiled. Her hair, while matted and filthy now, would have hung in wavy curls to her shoulders. She was wearing a necklace of slim gold around her neck. She did not look like a primitive at all.

She was human.

And we'd put her out of her misery.

"I know what you're thinking and while you're right, you're also wrong," Wesley said. He lowered the muzzle of his weapon.

"What do you mean?" I looked at him.

"She was human once, but she wasn't human when she charged out of that house." Wesley nodded at her. "She looked like one of those zombie things in 28 Days Later. When she charged out of that house she was a wild animal. The virus made her that way."

"Yeah, I know," I said. The mad urge to get the hell away from Naomi was now screaming at me. "And we're going to have a problem if this virus is able to infect those of us who were spared the first time around."

Wesley looked at the house. The brief staccato of gunfire had not created any kind of disturbance. If there were primitives in the immediate area they either never heard the gunfire, or they were retreating to higher ground.

Or they were heading our way, drawn by it.

Wesley sensed my urgency. "Let's check the house real quick."

"Do we have to?" I asked. The urge to leave was overwhelming. Who knows if the virus had mutated by this point? Perhaps that was why Naomi had turned nearly a month following the outbreak.

"We have to finish what we started," Wesley said as he made his way to the house. He stepped toward the open backdoor, rifle pointed at the house as if he expected another primitive to come leaping out at him. "This won't take long."

"Shit." I looked down at Naomi's corpse, then took off after Wesley.

When I got to the steps that led to the house, Wesley was already inside. "Oh my God," he said.

The smell was the first thing that hit me. A heavy stench of sweat and human waste that had been allowed to ferment in the closed-in space of this room. The second thing I noticed was the overturned table, clothes scattered on the floor and ripped to shreds, the washing machine on its side. A thin sheen of dirty water covered the floor.

Wesley was standing to my right, looking at the wall. I followed his gaze and saw what had taken him by surprise.

Drawn crudely in what appeared to be a mixture of feces and blood was a caricature of what I was now coming to know as the God of the New World. It took up the entire wall space; about five feet across and seven feet high. My mind flashed back briefly to the other depictions of the creature we'd seen on our journey to Montana, to Alex saying he'd never seen any weird drawings in Manning when he and Naomi made their trip out there (and I verified this by remembering I'd seen none on our drive into town just ten minutes ago).

"Jesus," I muttered, echoing Wesley's astonishment. "How the hell are they able to share the same...the same..."

"Image of this thing?" Wesley finished for me. "Fuck if I know."

"Do you feel the presence?" I asked him. While I felt something, it didn't feel like that same sensation of being watched that we experienced as we fled California.

"No," Wesley said, still looking at the figure on the wall. "Not really." He looked at me. "But I feel something."

From outside came a howl of anguish.

The suddenness of it startled me; I saw Wesley's eyes fly open in surprise as he whirled around, rifle raised, ready to shoot. I reacted in similar fashion and what I saw outside made my stomach churn.

Primitives were swarming the perimeter of the house. At first count it looked like over a dozen. Three of them were crouched near Naomi's corpse. One idly picked up her arm and gave a hooting sound. Another one made that howl of anguish, as if in mourning.

"AAAAaaaaarooooo!" A large male primitive, of African-American descent sporting a bushy beard and naked save for a dirty T-shirt and carrying a baseball bat, pointed at us as he howled. He was standing thirty feet from us. The three crouching around Naomi looked toward us at the sound of his war cry and sprang to their feet.

Wesley and I reacted on instinct. We pointed our weapons and sprayed bullets.

Wesley's initial shots took down the three that had stopped to examine Naomi's body. I fired a volley of shots toward the group clustered around the large male that had given his warning cry. The male primitive somehow managed to avoid getting hit as he charged at us. He was a fast blur as I brought my rifle around to fire at him, but he was faster. He darted right under Wesley's line of fire and slammed into me, knocking me on my back into the house.

My index finger squeezed the trigger of the rifle involuntarily, sending a staccato of shots toward the ceiling. Plaster and wood rained down on me, bouncing off the primitive's back as I held him off with my left forearm. He was howling, pushing his face at me to bite. His breath was horrendous. He wasn't very tall, but he was built like a linebacker with a heavily muscled chest and arms. His hands were grasped around my wrist, trying to force it away from my throat. His knee shoved up, connecting squarely with my inner right thigh, dangerously close to my groin. Pain exploded down there, fueling my adrenalin.

I heard a thump as I fought him, straining with all my might to shove him off of me. My handgun was digging into the small of my back painfully. I heard another thump, then another rise of howling from outside. Then, I heard Wesley say, "Oh shit."

I knew that wasn't good.

The primitive's knee hit my inner thigh again in the same exact spot, this time harder. I yelled in pain, and that blow was enough to temporarily weaken me. He shoved my arms aside and I twisted in his grasp at the last moment. His descending jaws clamped down on my shoulder and bit down hard just as I saw Wesley bring the stock of his rifle down on the back of the primitive's head.

The force of the blow was enough to not only knock the primitive out, it drove the teeth of his lower jaw through my shirt and into my shoulder. I screamed and hit him with my left fist, not even aware that he was unconscious.

"Shit, oh shit, oh shit!" Wesley said. I heard a staccato of gunfire, heard the dying cries of primitives. I don't know how he managed to hit so many as I was still thrashing beneath the body of the primitive that was holding me down. I was just realizing he was unconscious when I felt my rifle being jerked away from me. Panicked, I grabbed the unconscious primitive by the throat and used him as a shield, expecting another one to slam into me. Instead, I heard more gunfire and Wesley screaming, "Die you motherfuckers! Die!"

I had to help Wesley get out of this. I shoved the unconscious primitive aside, ignoring the pain in my inner right thigh and shoulder. I grabbed the rifle Wesley had dropped and immediately saw what happened and what was going on: Wesley had run out of ammo and he'd grabbed my rifle to continue the defensive. He'd managed to kill a large swath of primitives but more were emerging from the trees beyond the property. Jesus, how many of them were there?

I ejected the spent magazine, found a fresh one from the stash I had strapped to my jacket and slapped it in. I fired, missing at first, but soon taking them down like ducks at one of those carnival shooting galleries. I leapt to my feet, shooting at everything outside that moved. The primitives that had moved in from the outer perimeter were now either dead, dying, or running away.

Wesley rearmed his M4 from a series of spare magazines strapped over his shoulder and jumped off the porch. "You okay?"

"For now," I said.

Wesley took off in pursuit after the half dozen primitives that were running through the woods. I followed him.

We chased them to the end of the driveway, then stopped, placed them in our sights and tried to take them down. They kept going. One was knocked out of commission amid a cry of surprise and pain. I kept shooting at the others, but moving targets are a bitch to hit, as I've found out.

"Shit," Wesley said. He looked panicked. His eyes were wide with surprise and shock. "Goddammit, those things heard Naomi call out to them! She's been fucking calling them the past few days and they heard her!"

"They were coming to rescue her," I said, panting from the exertion of our firefight. I was watching the remaining five primitives become small specks in the distance.

"Goddamn right they were," Wesley said. He was watching the retreating primitives, too. I had the feeling that if he had a vehicle handy he'd take off in pursuit and hunt those remaining primitives down, killing them for the sheer revenge of it.

"Fuck." For the first time since our skirmish erupted, I was consciously aware of my surroundings. I scoped out the area, the trees, the driveway, and the house. Several primitives were dying, some howling in pain.

"You got any more ammo?" Wesley asked me.

"Yeah."

"Let's finish these fuckers off and get out of here." Wesley headed back toward the house and shot the first wounded primitive he saw. It ceased to howl as its brains spattered the gravel driveway.

As I helped Wesley take down the remaining primitives, my injuries became readily apparent. I was wobbling on shaking legs; my right leg was weak from what was obviously a massive charley horse on the muscle of my inner thigh; my right shoulder throbbed with agony. I could feel blood trail down my chest. I paused to check out the bite wound quickly. It looked ugly; motherfucker had sunk his teeth in good. The wound was a crusty mass of red and was beginning to swell.

Wesley stepped up to the porch that led to the mudroom. He pointed the muzzle at the big male primitive that had bit me and fired two shots into its head. For a brief moment I was mad at Wesley for doing that. I wanted to be the one to kill that fucking thing.

Wesley turned to me. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Change of plans," Wesley said as he stepped off the porch and headed towards me. "We're getting the hell out of here now."

And that's exactly what we did. We made it back to the jeep, alert for any sound, nervously jumping at every unexpected rustle of leaves. We climbed in and I slapped in a fresh magazine in my M4. My heart was fluttering in my chest.

"Okay?" Wesley looked at me with concern.

"Yeah."

"We gotta get that wound cleaned and dressed." Wesley rummaged in the back of the jeep and pulled out the first aid kit. He handed it to me. "You okay enough to do the honors while I get us out of here?"

"Yeah," I said, clutching the first aid kit.

"Good. Make it quick." Wesley started the jeep and swung it back onto the road.

As Wesley sped down the road in the direction we'd come, I opened the first aid kit and shrugged out of my shirt and jacket. I got my first good look at the wound. It was ugly, but while the primitive's teeth had broken the skin the cuts weren't that deep. The bleeding had stopped. I opened a bottle of peroxide, poured some in a dressing, and cleaned the wound. It stung. I gritted my teeth and washed the blood out of the wound as much as possible. Who knew what kind of disease these things carried. Of course, the first thing that crossed my mind was that old horror film standby—get bitten by a vampire, a werewolf, or a zombie, and you become one of them. Naomi obviously hadn't been bitten by one of them in order to get turned. She'd turned for reasons we didn't understand and that we needed to learn if we wanted to avoid a similar fate.

After hurriedly cleaning the wound, I slapped a bandage over it and closed the first aid kit. By the time we reached the Manning city limits I was cradling my M4 to my chest, the adrenalin rush now wearing off as we raced toward home.

Eighteen

Alex was still asleep when we got back to the cabin.

We stumbled inside and Tracy took one look at me and panicked. "Oh my God, what happened?"

Emily was on the floor scrawling in a coloring book. She looked at me and her eyes got wide. "Daddy!"

"I'm okay," I said. Tracy led me past Emily to the kitchen, asking me what happened. Martin and Lori came out from their respective locations and began asking their own questions, which I could hear Wesley answer as he gave them a briefing in the living room.

As I sat down at the kitchen table, Tracy was visibly upset. She grabbed a pot. "Let me get some water to boil. That cut needs to be cleaned out better. What happened?"

"I got bit," I said.

"Bit? By Naomi?" Tracy exited the kitchen to draw water from the spring in the back of the house as I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes.

I felt a tiny hand on my knee. Opened my eyes. Emily stood in front of me, concern etched in her features. "Daddy?"

I reached out to her and she flung herself into my embrace. As I held her I could feel her little body tremble. "Daddy, I'm scared," she whimpered.

"Everything will be okay," I said. They seemed like the most useless words in the world considering the situation, but what else was I going to say?

"No it won't! That...that thing...with the wings..."

"What about it?" I took her gently by the shoulders and looked at her, trying not to appear panicked or scared. "Tell me, Emily, what do you know?"

"I don't know!" She started crying. She flung herself at me and buried her face in my chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

Tracy entered the kitchen with a pot of water. She set it on the stove, turned on the electric stovetop. I held Emily, trying to comfort her and failing miserably. Tracy knelt down to Emily. "Honey, Daddy's going to be okay. Mommy just has to clean his cut better and—"

"The winged thing is coming!" Emily cried. She turned to her mother as she said this and I saw Tracy's eyes widen in fear.

Once again, I felt another chill race through me.

"Tell me what you know, Emily," I said gently.

Martin, Wesley, and Lori entered the kitchen. I glanced at them quickly and they seemed to understand the situation intuitively; whether they'd heard the brief exchange from the living room, I don't know. Whatever the case, they gathered around us in the kitchen, silent and curious to hear what Emily had to say.

Lori closed the kitchen door and knelt down to Emily's eye level as Tracy continued trying to calm her down. "Did you have bad dreams about the winged thing, baby?" Lori asked.

Sniffling, Emily nodded.

"And what happened in the dreams?"

"It was flying over us," Emily said solemnly. Her face was red, eyes still damp from tears. "It was flying all over the place and those wild people were outside. They were...attacking..." she started to cry again.

"They were attacking us?" I asked.

Crying again, Emily nodded.

We five adults were silent as Tracy, Lori, and I tried to calm Emily down. When her sobs had trickled down again, Tracy smoothed her hair back from her face. "Did you have these dreams at night?"

Emily shook her head, paused, and then nodded.

"You don't know or you aren't sure?"

Emily shrugged. "I don't know. I...I had them at night...last night and...today...just before Daddy and Wesley got home...when I was having my nap."

Tracy would have put Emily down for a nap shortly after we left the house to deal with Naomi. The timing implied in Emily's revelations was disturbing, to say the least.

"Why didn't you tell me about them, honey?" Tracy asked softly.

"I don't know!" Emily said, her voice threatening to break down again. She looked frustrated and scared.

"Were you afraid to tell me?"

Emily nodded, starting to cry again.

I touched Emily's shoulder, brushed her hair back. "You don't ever have to be afraid about telling us things, Emily," I said. "If you ever feel afraid or have any kind of weird dream...even if you just feel that weird sense like we experienced a month ago...you tell us. Okay?"

Emily nodded, sniffling. I could tell she understood.

"Do you feel okay enough to tell us about the dreams again?" Tracy asked her.

Emily nodded. "Yeah."

"Good. So what else happened in the dreams? You said the thing with wings was flying over our house?"

"Yeah. It was flying all over the place and those wild people...they were running around outside and some were...attacking us. I was trying to hide from them. I...couldn't see you or Daddy anywhere and I was afraid."

"Could you hear us?"

She nodded. "I could hear all of you. And I could see Wesley." She looked at Wesley. "He was carrying one of those big guns and shooting it. I was hiding in the cabinet by the TV. I closed the door and was hiding there, peeking out through a little hole and watching."

"And what happened?" Tracy asked.

"I saw that girl," Emily said. She looked fearfully at Tracy and me. "The one that didn't like me. Heather."

"And what was she doing?" I asked, instantly feeling a sense of dread wash over me. I glanced at Tracy quickly. How did Emily know Heather didn't like her?

"She was here," Emily said. "She was...I could tell she was dead...she looked like one of those dead things in that cartoon...the Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy...what do you call them?"

"Zombies," I said, immediately noticing the implications.

"She looked like that. And there were more with her."

"How many more?" Martin asked.

"A lot." Emily wasn't crying anymore.

"Were the zombies attacking us too?"

Emily nodded. "Yes. And Heather was leading them. She..." It looked like Emily was going to break down again, but she managed to get out what she needed to say quickly. "She...I was hiding, and I could see her coming into the house and she came straight towards me...and got me...she pulled me out of my hiding place and then—"

"Honey, don't, it's okay," Tracy said. She took Emily into her arms as the little girl began to sob again.

"That's when I woke up," Emily said, crying. "That's when I realized I was just having a bad dream, but now..."

"You were having a bad dream," I said, making a feeble attempt to soothe her nerves. With all the ugliness and death Emily had seen the past month, it was no wonder she had such a horrible nightmare. It was also obvious that despite the shielding Tracy and I had done to prevent Emily from learning about Heather's disdain for her and her death (in the days following that altercation back in California, we simply told her that Heather decided to go off on her own, which she never questioned), somehow she'd picked up on both counts.

Emily looked at the five of us gathered around her. "Now I'm not so sure if it was a dream. It...felt too real."

Another chill raced down my spine. Was Emily somehow becoming psychically linked with the God of the New World? Was she receiving visions?

The thought must have been on everyone else's mind judging by the looks on their faces.

"Is there anything else you can tell us about your dream?" Wesley asked.

"Was the winged creature looking for us?" Lori asked.

Emily nodded. "It was looking for us and...I don't know how it found us. But...I get the feeling..." For the first time I saw a vision of Emily as a grownup; she suddenly looked mature beyond her years. "...that Heather knew where to find us...and led him to us."

"Was Heather...did it seem like she was being controlled?" Wesley asked.

Emily frowned. "No...but...she didn't seem...like she was there. It was like...I could see it was her even though she was a zombie but...it wasn't Heather." Emily was beginning to show the signs of frustration.

"I understand," I said quickly, rubbing her shoulders. I glanced at the gathered throng quickly. That's enough questions for now. Everybody got the message.

"I'm going to take Emily upstairs," Tracy said, picking Emily up. "Lori, can you help clean and dress David's wound better?"

"Sure thing." Lori knelt down beside me as Tracy and Emily exited the room.

Now with Emily and Tracy out of the room, it was open season on what we could talk about. "I don't feel good about this," I admitted.

"Neither do I," Wesley said.

"Did Wesley tell you two what happened?" I asked Lori and Martin.

They nodded. Lori applied a warm cloth to the bite wound on my shoulder and began to gently clean it out. I winced. The pain throbbed, and in certain spots it was tender and throbbing.

"There's no doubt Naomi was communicating with them," Wesley said. He was pacing the kitchen, still wound up with adrenaline from our earlier confrontation. "And if she was communicating with them there's not only more of them, but they have some kind of link to this...thing...this God of the New World or whatever it is."

"What about this thing with Heather?" I asked.

"What about it?"

I briefly told them about my earlier conversation with Emily when she said that Alex was a "good guy." "I'm getting the feeling Emily might possess some kind of psychic ability."

"You think her dream represents something that might happen in the future?" Martin asked.

"It's too much to be coincidental. We never told her about Heather's death. How would she know?"

Nobody had an answer for that.

Lori patted my wound dry. "I'm gonna apply another dabbing of peroxide on this and some first aid cream, then I'll slap a fresh bandage on it," she said.

I nodded.

"You hurt anywhere else?" Lori poured peroxide into a dressing and began to clean the wound again.

"Just my inner right thigh where I was kicked a few times," I said. "But I can live with that."

"What about you, Wesley?" Lori's focus was now on tending to our wounds.

"I'm fine." Wesley was still pacing the kitchen, still trying to work through what had just happened and what Emily had told us.

"That story Stuart told us last night," I began, "the one about the sacrifice he saw. He said he saw the primitive that was sacrificed come back, and that the God of the New World was flying over it and that it appeared the primitive was being manipulated. Like the God was pulling its strings, directing it. Possessing it, maybe. It was also taking on the God's physical characteristics. Remember that?"

Martin nodded, suddenly looking pale. Lori stopped her ministrations on me, a look of terror on her face. "Jesus, David, I never thought that. My God, that would mean—"

"That the God of the New World is raising the dead? Yeah, I think that's what it means."

And with that, the implications became even clearer.

If the God of the New World could reanimate the dead—primitive and non-primitive alike, then we really were screwed.

* * *

Once my wound was dressed and I got a little soup in me, it was decided that Lori, Wesley, and I would be with Alex when he woke up, that we would break the news of Naomi's death to him as gently as possible. Because we had left the cabin in a hurry and did not bury Naomi's body, we could not go with our original plan, which was to have him lead us to the property the following day and discover her absence, chalking it up as escape on her part. It was best to get this unpleasant task over with as quickly as possible. So I made a brief trek upstairs to check on Tracy and Emily. They were sitting on the bed, drawing in a coloring book. As hard as Tracy had tried to divert Emily's attention from the madness we were living in, my daughter's face still bore the signs of strain. "You okay?" Tracy asked me.

"Yeah." I gave her a brief recap of Lori's first-aid procedure and pronounced myself fit. "I'm going back downstairs. We're gonna be there when Alex wakes up."

Tracy nodded. The original plan had been her idea, and I could tell she was devastated that there was no practical excuse for us to stick to it.

I joined the others in the living room where Alex was on the sofa, still fast asleep. He looked almost serene lying there.

The early evening setting sun was casting grim shadows across the room. I motioned to Martin. "What time is it?"

Martin checked his watch. "Almost six."

I nodded. It was hard to believe so much time had passed.

"How long's he been asleep?" Wesley asked.

"Almost four hours now," Lori said. She knelt down beside him and felt his forehead. Alex stirred at her touch and made a sound. "It's okay," Lori told him.

"Hey," Alex said, opening his eyes. He stretched, yawned. "What's going on?"

"We just wanted to see how you're doing," Lori said.

"I'm okay," Alex said. He stretched, yawned again, and rubbed his eyes. I felt conspicuous standing there.

Wesley nodded at Lori.

"Baby, we've got something to tell you," Lori said. She laid a hand on his shoulder as he rose to a sitting position. "It's not good news."

"What?" Alex looked at us wide-eyed, the sleep still in his eyes. He must have seen the grim expressions in our faces because he suddenly looked frightened. "What happened?"

"Naomi is dead, Alex," Wesley said.

Alex said nothing. He looked stunned; dumbfounded.

"David and I went to your place to help her," Wesley continued, speaking calmly, gently, with the right inflection of sincerity and condolence in his voice. "She was making that howling noise you described. That howling...the other primitives could hear it. She was calling other primitives—they arrived shortly after we got there and—"

"No, you can't be serious?" Alex cried. His anguished face lit on each of us, as if imploring us to confirm this was some sick joke.

I nodded, feeling uncomfortable. "I'm sorry Alex, but it's true."

"I don't understand," Alex said. He looked at Lori as she sat on the sofa beside him, her arm draped comfortingly around his shoulders.

"We were forced to defend ourselves," Wesley said, still speaking in that careful, gentle tone. "The primitives caught us off guard. There were dozens of them, probably over fifty." Pause. "There was nothing we could do."

"So...you shot her?"

Wesley nodded. For the first time I've known him, he looked ashamed.

"You can't be serious?" Alex's voice rose to a hitch; he was on the verge of breaking down. "No, this isn't right, she can't be dead, please tell me you're just fucking with me, please!"

"I'm sorry, Alex," Wesley said again, this time more softly. "We did everything we could."

Alex sobbed.

Martin, Wesley and I stood in a small semi-circle in front of the sofa as Alex cried. It was very uncomfortable. The pain of his loss reverberated loud and clear.

"Why?" he cried. Lori was cradling his head against her shoulder. "Why did you have to kill her! She just...she just needed help!"

"We tried to help her," I offered, the admission sounding futile now in the aftermath.

"Why?" Alex sobbed.

Lori looked at me as she tried to console Alex's grief. "Go to the medicine cabinet and get me a Valium capsule," she said. "Brew up some hot tea and bring it to me."

I nodded and left the living room to do as Lori asked.

I used the rest of the still-hot water Tracy had boiled up and quickly made a cup of green tea. I got a capsule of Valium and brought it back to the living room. When I got back, Alex was still crying. Martin and Wesley were seated on chairs, looking uncomfortable and frightened.

I handed the tea and Valium to Lori, who took it. Alex was now doubled over as he sat on the sofa, rocking back and forth. His long shaggy hair fell over his face. He kept saying something over and over. Something like, "No," or "I can't believe it." He kept repeating these phrases.

"You okay?" I asked Lori.

She nodded as she broke the capsule and dumped the contents into the tea. "I'll be fine. I think we need to be alone for a bit though."

Martin and Wesley stood up. "We'll be in the radio room," Wesley said.

As Wesley and Martin left the living room I told Lori, "Make sure he gets some sleep. Join us later, okay?"

She nodded. She offered the tea to Alex. "Come on, baby, drink a little of this for me, okay?"

I left the living room and joined the guys in the radio room.

Nineteen

Martin, Wesley, and I sat in the radio room and talked in low voices. Martin listened as Wesley and I filled him in on the details at Alex's house. "It's spreading," he said. "The God of the New World is reaching out to all the primitives, gathering them under his control and influence."

"We need to find out exactly what this goddamn thing is," Wesley muttered.

"It's a demon."

We turned to the doorway where Lori stood. She entered the room and closed the door. "Alex is sleeping," she said. "I'm hoping he sleeps through the night. I'm going to bunk down here with him tonight."

"Who's on ground floor watch tonight?" Wesley asked.

"I am," Martin said.

Wesley said nothing. Lori sat next to me on the small sofa that flanked the inner wall.

"Let me see if I can get Stuart on the line," Wesley said. He turned to the radio equipment, picked up the mike, and began fiddling with the switches. "Stuart, this is you-know-who on your band. Come in, Stuart. You listening, partner?"

Silence. We sat there for a moment, listening, hoping Stuart would come on, but there was nothing.

"Stuart, this is Wesley. If you're there, please pick up."

The silence lengthened. I found myself hoping that Stuart was okay.

"Stuart, this is Wesley. I'm at my station and will be here all night. If you're there, please answer."

There was a brief pause, and then a click on the other side.

"Stuart?"

Once again, there was silence.

And then a strangled hiss came from the speakers that almost sent me through the roof.

The voice behind that hiss was ancient.

It was legion.

"Stuart?" Wesley said softly. The fear in his voice was all too real.

"Wwweeeessssssssssssleeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyy!"

Lori grabbed my hand, crushing it so hard it hurt, and I think I almost leaped straight into her lap at the sound of that voice.

That voice wasn't human.

It represented everything that was evil. It had a guttural, slithering tinge to it, as if it was spoken with a forked tongue over a maw of ragged teeth from a throat as old as time. It held an inflection of wisdom, a wisdom so great it felt like whatever hissed that single word could look deep into our hearts and minds and know our fears, our desires, our sense of purpose. And with that wisdom was also a sense of mirth. As if we were mere playthings to the creature on the other end. Things to be toyed with.

"Stuart?" Wesley asked again, the shakiness in his voice very apparent.

There was another hiss from the thing on the other end. And then what sounded like a laugh. "Stuart's not here right now, Wesley," the thing said. "But I am. I'm just borrowing Stuart's body. I found him, you see. Found him and took over. Oh, he put up a fight, but I took over. I won!"

"Hang up that fucking thing right now!" Lori barked.

Wesley disconnected the signal and flicked the radio off.

To me, the damage had been done. I could still hear the sound of that thing's voice in my mind.

"What the hell was that?" Martin asked.

"That wasn't Stuart," I said. I had my arms around Lori, who was trembling.

"No," Wesley said quietly, his voice shaking. "That wasn't Stuart." He cast a scared look at us. "Stuart's gone now."

"Oh God," Lori said. She turned her face to my chest. I could feel her body tremble as she tried to stifle her emotions.

"So what was it?" Martin asked. He had a panicked look about him. "Was it one of the primitives? Was it—"

"I don't know!" Wesley said. He looked at Martin, frustrated, scared. He shook his head.

We sat there in the growing dark of the radio room and tried to get past this latest scare. I held Lori and I think in doing so we comforted each other. Wesley sat behind the console, not saying anything, and Martin stood by the desk looking restless.

I broke the silence. "We need to find out what we're dealing with. I brought six volumes covering ancient superstitions and belief systems of primitive man. I doubt I'll find anything in them, but—"

"You might find something," Martin said. He nodded at me. "Go. There's nothing else we can do tonight anyway."

I patted Lori's shoulder and stood up, extricating myself from her. "I'll be in the office," I said.

And then I left the room and went to crack open the books.

* * *

I not only didn't really learn a goddamn thing from the books I got from the library, I fell asleep in the office.

I pored through each book, doing a fast skim read. As night fell, I turned on a lamp to see by, not wanting to turn on the lights for fear of the house being a beacon in the night for every wayward primitive in the area to see us. I reacquainted myself with the study of the Neanderthal, the emergence of the Cro-Magnon, and the eventual demise of the former. I confirmed that because Neanderthals had no written language, the only evidence we had that suggested any belief in a spiritual afterlife was burial sites: the remains of a Neanderthal was found in Northern Iraq buried under a pile of rocks and resting on a bed of flowers. Surely a ritual that held some kind of spiritual significance to early man. Further archeological evidence shows a prehistoric custom of dusting corpses with red ocher (a mixture of clay and iron oxide) that was found throughout the area Neanderthal's once roamed. One of the more popular theories on this was the notion that the red pigment was a symbolic substitution for blood.

I skimmed through two more volumes, all going over the same theories, all detailing the same archeological evidence. Depictions of primitive man in hunting parties; photos of crude stone tools, jewelry made of bone. Photos of cave paintings, although these would come from the more modern Homo sapiens. I paid close attention to the relationship between Homo sapiens and Neanderthal, and eventually dragged out a tablet of paper and a pen from the desk and jotted down notes. Neanderthals died out twenty thousand years ago, well after the arrival of Homo sapiens two hundred thousand years ago. The theory of crossbreeding was a popular one, yet archeological evidence shows that the two avoided each other whenever possible. There would have been tribal conflicts. And while Homo Sapien were smarter, Neanderthals were physically stronger. In the end, Homo sapiens would prove to be the dominant species, going on to forge bigger clans which would eventually form into primitive societies until the written word came about and then...well, I already knew what went on from there, from Mesopotamia and Sumer, to Babylon, to Egypt and Ancient Greece. The question was: what if the God of the New World wasn't a Neanderthal God?

Perhaps it was an ancient God from our own homo sapiens ancestors?

That didn't make sense. If so, why was it manifesting itself now?

I flipped through a book that had a large section on ancient cave drawings. As I flipped through the photos somewhat lazily, my mind wandered. I was chasing my tail. The photos I came across showed cave paintings I'd seen before. Totem animals—deer, lions, mammoths. Caricatures of primitive man hunting down mammoth. Fascinating stuff, but I'd seen it all before. As I flipped through the photos I realized that we might be dealing with something entirely new, that the God of the New World might be simply that—a new God, for an entirely New World brought about by ways we would never understand. The idea of a Neanderthal strain in our DNA being triggered via the virus that was sprayed in the smart bombs...simple speculation. After all, the debate over the Neanderthal gene in our DNA had been hotly contested up until that fateful day when the world went mad, with the latest theory being that Homo sapiens and Neanderthal shared a common ancestor seven hundred thousand years ago, with the evolution tree undergoing a complete separation of the species three hundred thousand years ago. Could the chemical compound in question have triggered this unknown strain, tapped into this hitherto unknown missing link?

Wesley had no doubt heard this theory. I doubted he would have had first hand knowledge of any kind of government plot to disperse such a compound to render the majority of the human population into masses of crazed animals.

With that in mind, wouldn't it be possible that the God of the New World was a creature created in a government lab?

Now my mind was running away with me. Chalk that up to my over-active imagination, which was how I made my living in the old days.

Of course back then, I could use that imagination to map my way out of a plot jam.

I couldn't do that in the real world.

I was frustrated and about to give up for the night when a photo toward the end of the volume I was flipping through—An Illustrated History of Prehistoric Man—caught my eye.

It was a photo of a cave painting in Spain. Shot in brilliant color, it contained the usual multitudes of reds, oranges, violets and hazels, a blend of colors creating a canvas that depicted a man bearing a spear battling large mastodons and saber-toothed tigers. Yet in the upper left hand corner, very faintly, there it was—

The God of the New World.

I scrutinized the photo more closely. It was very faint, and at first I thought my imagination was playing tricks on me, but it was evident. The wings, the arms, the horned head. It was in the upper left hand side of the cave painting, as if the unknown artist was depicting it flying over the hunting scene. It was so crudely drawn that I almost convinced myself my mind was playing tricks on me, that I was seeing it in that myriad of colors because I wanted to see it. It was an optical illusion, like seeing bunnies and Elvis in cloud formations.

It was subtle, yet I couldn't deny it. I was seeing it.

The footnote that accompanied the photo made no mention of the figure at all, merely indicating the painting in question was probably composed circa 35,000 BC. I flipped the page, trying to find more from that era. There were photos of cave paintings throughout Europe, and then a few pages later, the Middle East.

I found another slight depiction of the God of the New World in a cave painting found in Sumer, in what is now Iraq. Once again, the painting appeared to depict a hunting party. In addition to the scene of hunter-gatherers killing a large animal, another group of humans appeared to be engaged in some kind of ritual; they were gathered together in a circle. The sky overhead was painted in reds and oranges; to the casual observer it might have suggested the setting of the sun. My trained eye, however, saw the God of the New World quite clearly in the swatches of color, overhead in the upper right hand corner of the painting. And as I looked at it, definitely convinced now that I wasn't just seeing things, something sparked my memory.

Leaving the volume open, I fumbled for the only book I could find in the library on ancient superstitions. I flipped through it, browsing through the chapter headings: Mesopotamian Spiritual Beliefs, Animist Beliefs of Primitive Europeans. The Gods of Ancient Egypt. Sumerian Myths and Magic.

I flipped to that last chapter and browsed, trying to find photos, drawings, anything.

And found it.

My breath caught in my throat.

It was too close to be true. While it sported no horns, there was a ridged crown running down the middle of its head. The wings were readily apparent, as was the human-like body. The head, while said to depict a dog or a lion, was strangely human in form, yet demonic in its features with its large eyes and mouth and overall sense of evil.

Pazuzu. The Assyrian demon from the first millennium BC.

Known as the god of the southwest wind for bringing drought and famine during dry seasons, and locusts during rainy seasons, Pazuzu was said to be an evil spirit who drove away other evil spirits, protecting humans against plagues and misfortune. He was the son of Hanbi, who was the lord of all evil spirits. I flipped to the index to find more on Hanbi and found only one other entry. Flipping to the appropriate page number, the reference made mention of Pazuzu's lineage again with the simple note, "Little is known of Hanbi. According to many ancient religious sects, Hanbi is another identification of Satan."

Alex's story of Naomi's increasing religious fervor prior to her turning primitive came to me. She was convinced that demons were walking the earth, that the primitives weren't people, but demons!

I knew enough about Satan from my own readings of the occult. The word itself was Hebrew in origin and meant "adversary." Abrahamic religious belief systems other than Judaism relate this term to a demon, a rebellious fallen angel, or an allegory for evil. The very word Satan and the Arabic "shaitan" meant "to be hostile" or "to accuse." In Job 1:7, when God asks him from where he has come from, Satan answers, "From wandering the earth and walking on it." The root word sut, from the term wandering, or mi sut, signifies wandering on foot or sailing. Satan would thus be The Wanderer.

Much like how the God of the New World was wandering...or sailing over the world now.

As I tried to find more research on Hanbi, more of my research on Satan came forth (much of that from a novella and a novel I'd published in what now seemed the dawn of time). In the Book of Wisdom, itself part of The Apocrypha, religious writings which are not generally accepted as scripture by many mainstream sects of Christianity and Judaism, the devil is represented as the being who brought death into the world. Of course, in Christianity, Satan originally appeared as an angel, the angel of music, who rebelled against God and was cast into his role by an angry God to rule in Hell, thus paving the way for years of religious dogma that would persist until...well, until the world fell and the God of the New World rose to hold sway.

I glanced around the office, noting the books that lined the bookshelf. Not one volume on religion, much less a Bible for further research. Which would mean another trip to the library to hopefully find a volume on the occult, or devil worship.

My discovery was making me restless. I headed out of the office and went upstairs to check on Tracy and Emily. As I entered our suite I made note of the time on the battery-operated digital clock on the nightstand. It was almost nine PM I'd been studying for almost three hours.

Emily and Tracy were already asleep in the king-sized bed. Emily lay on her left side, spooned against Tracy. I watched them for a moment, then went back downstairs again. After stopping briefly to check on Lori and Alex (who was fast asleep on the sofa) and Martin, who was pulling guard duty outside, I went back into the office.

I examined every book in the office. There was nothing to be had on the occult. Not even in the form of fiction. I was hoping for some King, some Blatty, something in the realm of popular fiction that had mined the lore of devil worship and demons where I could hopefully dig out some nuggets of truth from the make-believe, which is what fiction was. The closest I could find to anything remotely resembling that brand of fiction were a few James Patterson thrillers. I went back to the book on ancient superstition and read more, soaking up information on Assyrian, Mesopotamian, and Babylonian belief systems. I thought of Hanbi, Pazuzu, and the devil, and the belief of demonic possession as popularized in Christian thought and dramatized in the William Peter Blatty novel The Exorcist. The demon in both the book and movie was Pazuzu, the setting in the beginning of the novel and film Northern Iraq, the cradle of civilization and the area where ancient Assyrian and Sumerian belief systems sprang.

At some point, the events of the day took their toll on my body, and then my mind. I could feel myself growing tired as I went upstairs to check on my family again.

Eventually, the fatigue spread. It was becoming harder to concentrate on the written word.

I must have fallen asleep around ten-thirty, maybe eleven.

I don't remember how long I was asleep. An hour at the most. Maybe two.

What woke me up was the sound of Lori Smith screaming.

* * *

I sprang to my feet and dashed out of the room at the sound of Lori's ear-piercing scream from the living room. My heart pounded as I became immediately concerned for my family and their safety.

As I reached the living room I saw Martin come in from outside. He was cradling an M4. I heard footsteps upstairs and a moment later Tracy emerged on the landing, looking worried and rattled. I felt a momentary sense of relief at seeing her there. Lori screamed again from the living room. "Oh damn, oh shit, no, this isn't happening!"

"Stay there!" I shouted at Tracy. I went toward the living room, following Martin, and instantly regretted it; I didn't have a weapon.

I heard Alex yell something as Martin and I entered the den, and then I heard what I first thought to be a third voice. This voice was guttural, almost animal-like in its nature. Martin stopped at the threshold to the living room, and as I looked into the darkened room my vision caught what was going on.

Lori was standing away from the sofa looking terrified. Alex was sitting up, rocking back and forth again, saying "no, please, no please" over and over. Every once in awhile he would growl and that third voice would take over, that guttural animal-like tone that was reminiscent of the primitives.

"He's turning," Lori said, her eyes panicked. "He's turning and I can't get him to stop! I can't—"

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" Alex insisted, that growl now replaced by a tone of panic. When he looked at us I could see his terrified gaze swing from Lori to us. He was shaking his head. "Really, I'm okay, I just had a bad dream, I—"

I heard a fourth set of footsteps behind me; Wesley. "What's going on?" he barked.

"There's something wrong with Alex!" Lori said, her voice still carrying that edge of panic.

"There's nothing wrong with me!" Alex insisted. He was leaning forward on the sofa now. He didn't look like he was turning to me.

"Then why the fuck were you sounding like a goddamn wild animal a minute ago?"

"I-I w-wasn't!" Alex stammered.

"Bullshit! I heard it, I saw you!"

Martin stepped forward, rifle cradled in his arms. "What did you see, Lori?"

"She didn't see anything!" Alex implored Martin. It was obvious that Martin scared him to death; Martin not only cut an imposing figure, he was carrying that rifle.

"Why don't you try to relax a little bit," I told Alex.

"I'm okay!" Alex kept insisting. He was still rocking back and forth on the sofa, his frightened eyes darting around the room. "I'm okay, really, I am."

"You're not okay, Alex!" Lori stated.

"Why don't you just tell us what happened," Wesley said.

"I was dozing on the floor and he just started growling." Lori had scampered to the coffee table, where she kept her distance from Alex. "I got up and he was sitting there like that, rocking back and forth. I thought he was having a bad dream, that he was thinking of Naomi because he kept saying 'no' over and over, and then—"

"That's all it was, just a bad dream," Alex reiterated.

"But you were changing!" Lori admonished. She was speaking directly to Alex now, some of her hardcore personality coming back through. "You looked at me and you made that sound again...that demon sound like you hear in horror movies and...when you looked at me...you weren't there!"

"She's lying!" Alex said, still looking panicked.

"I called your name three times and you didn't respond!"

"That's not true!" As Alex said that, his voice changed—whether involuntarily or not, it was a notable change. The word true had that guttural, raspy tone as described by Lori.

We all jumped at the sound of it. Alex began to growl again as he rocked and I saw something flit across his features.

Lori was right.

He was changing.

"Oh Jesus," Lori said. She scrambled off the coffee table, almost falling on the floor in her haste to get away. Martin gripped the M4 in his hands, unsure of what to do.

Wesley stepped forward, almost fearless in his approach. "Alex, you've got to fight it!"

Alex growled at Wesley. They locked eyes. I could see Alex's true human nature in there, swimming in his baby blues, pleading for help as something came to the surface and tried to take over.

"Fight it!" Wesley roared.

The thing trying to take over winked out and Alex was back. "What's happening?" he said, his voice breaking down.

Wesley turned to me. "Get the rope out of the kitchen. Now!"

I scrambled out of the living room and went to the kitchen, keeping my ears peeled to what was going on in the living room. I could hear Alex crying, pleading for help, and Wesley's stronger, more authorative voice telling him to fight it, just fight it goddammit! I flipped on the light, saw the adjoining mudroom and stumbled inside. A coil of rope lay on the unused washing machine. I grabbed it and headed back to the living room.

When I got back to the living room Lori was standing by Martin, who had the M4 pointed at Alex. Wesley was guardedly approaching him, talking to him. "Fight it, Alex, fight it!"

"Aaaaarrrrruuuuggghhhhh!" Alex roared. He titled his head back, eyes closed. Even with his eyes closed I could see the transformation take shape. It wasn't like a CGI special effect; it was more like a kind of essence that was struggling to take hold.

I handed the coil of rope to Wesley who immediately began wrapping it around Alex's arms and torso. "Help me tie him up," he said as I leaped forward to do just that.

As we tied him up I could feel the primitive nature take hold of Alex. It was like handling a live wire, knowing it was going to explode and throw sparks at any moment. With it came that spiritual sense I described earlier; that sense that something wicked, something unnatural but all knowing, was in the air.

"Fight it, Alex, fight it!" Wesley said as he worked the rope around his body, tying his arms to his sides.

Alex came out of it once as we were tying him up. That guttural, demonic voice broke up, became the sobbing falsetto of Alex, who looked at us and started crying again. "Oh God, what's happening, what's happening to me!" only to be cut off by the primitive life force that came back with a new found strength. I had just gotten his feet and ankles bound together and was fumbling for a way to tie the bonds off, when the primitive took over completely. It opened Alex's eyes, snarled, and tried to leap off the sofa at us. I yelled, dropped the rope, and fell on my ass.

"Aaaarrrrgghhh!" Alex leaped at Wesley, trying to take a bite out of him.

Wesley punched Alex in the face. The blow had no effect. Alex lunged at him again.

"Get him down, get him down!" Wesley yelled.

Alex howled. The sound of that howl evoked our trek to his house yesterday afternoon and what it had brought with it.

And then Martin stepped in and shoved the stock of the M4 down on Alex's head in a hearty thump that knocked him completely out and cut the howl off in mid-stream.

"Oh Jesus," Lori said again, visibly shaken.

Alex slumped forward and fell off the sofa.

Wesley glanced up at Martin, panting heavily from the exertion of his struggle. "Thanks, Martin." He quickly took Alex's pulse. "He's alive. Help me tie these ropes off and gag him."

Feeling a little safer now that Alex was unconscious, I helped Wesley tie Alex's bonds, and Martin handed over a discarded towel from the kitchen, which we used as a gag. We laid him down on the sofa. Despite being unconscious, we could all notice the huge change in him. Aside from the heavy presence of the primitive, there was a smell that seemed to permeate him. It was a smell of corruption. Of rot.

Of evil.

If evil had a smell, this one was it. A mixture of dampness, of sweat, of bodily fluids and rotting corpses. Of body odor. Prior to this, I chalked that up to the primitive's lack of hygiene. To have it manifest itself on Alex so quickly told me it was a spiritual essence, part of its makeup. It's what marked them.

"Do you guys smell that?" I asked.

They nodded. Lori was still standing by the threshold. "That's an evil smell," she said.

"Yeah," I said, taking a step away from Alex. "And I gotta get away from this thing. I just—"

I was feeling my gorge rise. I turned and stumbled out of the living room and made it to the kitchen just in time to throw up in the kitchen sink.

Twenty

Alex woke up thirty minutes later completely bound and gagged.

And completely primitive.

He growled through his gag. His eyes narrowed into slits as he gazed at us in animal fury. His arms bulged as he tried to force his way out of the heavy rope that bound his arms to his sides, his legs and ankles lashed together.

The five of us were standing around him in the living room waiting for him to regain consciousness. Tracy had come downstairs and she was pale, trembling with anxiety.

It was dark and quiet outside. Martin had checked the perimeter of the cabin shortly after knocking Alex out and pronounced the area safe. But for how long? I think there was an unspoken acknowledgement between the five of us that our window of opportunity was slipping away, that soon this area would be visited by hordes of primitives, a greater mass than we'd ever seen. Wesley even said at one point that we should pack up and leave before the sun rose. Strike for farther points north, head into Canada. But nobody countered his suggestion with an alternative. I think we were all too stunned by the recent turn of events.

Alex tried to howl through his gag. A vein pulsed in his forehead from the exertion he was putting himself through in breaking out of his bonds. His head whipped back and forth in fury, his long blonde hair tangled and sweaty.

"How could this happen?" Lori whispered. She was standing near Tracy and me; Tracy's arms were around her. I was thinking the same thing. If it could happen to Alex and Naomi, it could happen to any of us. It could happen to my daughter. That was my worst nightmare.

"We can't just leave him like this," I said.

"Well, we can't study him either," Martin said. "Much as a part of me would like to put him in a cage and observe him, learn more about these things, that isn't feasible right now."

"We can't just kill him!" Lori said. The expression in her face was identical, to some degree, with what all five of us were feeling. We had to put an end to Alex to protect us, but we still needed to learn more about the primitives.

Wesley glanced at me. "Did you learn anything from those books?"

"Yes and no," I said, my thoughts a jumbled mass.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I'm more confused now than I was when this shit started."

"Cut to the chase, David."

I sighed. Alex continued to howl through his gag. As muffled as his howling was, the tone of his voice was starting to get to me again. "The closest I could find was a few cave paintings of the God of the New World...the figure itself wasn't even identified as a deity in the footnotes. I thought I was seeing things."

"But it was there, right?" Wesley looked anxious for me to provide them all with the CliffsNotes version of what I'd learned. "Maybe the anthropologists who studied this shit just didn't pick up on it. Maybe they didn't recognize it."

"Yeah, that's what I'm thinking." I nodded toward Alex. "And it was there, definitely. Seeing those photos made me think of something Alex told us earlier. Remember what he related about his wife? What she told him before she turned primitive?"

"Her religious mania was growing," Martin said.

"Yeah. And she was convinced we were in the end times, that the primitives weren't really people...but demons."

"Yeah, and?" Wesley said.

I looked at Lori, made eye contact with her. She'd made a similar statement just a short time ago. When I turned to Wesley and Martin, I gestured toward Alex's writhing form on the sofa. "The God of the New World looks suspiciously like sculptures and drawings of an ancient Assyrian demon called Pazuzu." I gave them a brief anthropological lesson on Pazuzu and his appearances in folklore and literature. "It's said his father is Hanbi, Lord of all demons. Not much is known of Hanbi; there's no drawings of him, not much of anything, really, but in many religious sects Hanbi is another name for Satan."

Lori drew in a breath of shock. I felt Tracy stiffen by my side.

"In many cultures it's said that Satan can raise the dead, that demons can occupy the bodies of the living and the dead." I was looking at Alex as I spoke, my mind turning over the possibilities. "In the Bible and other religious texts, Satan is said to be The Wanderer. This God of the New World has been described to us as wandering the earth, gathering its followers, in some cases possessing those of the dead that were sacrificed to it." I glanced at my gathered clan, gaining strength from them. "We've felt its presence. We've heard about the influence it has on the primitives from Stuart, and we've just seen how it's taken over the body of a man who was one of us just a short while ago." All eyes fell on Alex again, who growled through the gag in his mouth and glared at us with eyes that were as fiery as the pits of hell. "We can no longer deny it," I whispered. "Satan has come to represent all kinds of things, from evil incarnate, to chaos, to rebellion, to accuser. He's also been linked to represent our animal side, our pure unadulterated lust and carnal desire, everything Abrahamic religions have taught us is sinful. And what better way to summon an ancient demon than through the collective belief systems of the most primitive of us?"

"I don't think I follow you," Martin said.

"You've all heard stories of demonic possession, right? The Exorcist was loosely based on a real case that happened back in the 1940's. The film The Exorcism of Emily Rose was also supposedly based on a true case that happened in Germany in the mid 70's. I remember hearing about other cases, mostly from my Aunt, who was very involved in the Catholic Church. I didn't know how much of that to believe, but now..." My voice trailed off.

"What you're insinuating, David," Martin said, his voice trembling. "It's impossible."

"Why is it impossible?" Lori asked.

"I'm an atheist. If I don't believe there's a God, I surely don't believe there's a devil."

Alex continued to growl through his gag. The fresh scent of excrement invaded my nostrils. Alex had just shit himself.

"Then what the hell you call that?" Lori stated. She pointed an accusing finger at Alex, who continued to writhe and growl on the sofa.

"This is all too much," Martin said. He was clearly at a loss to confront what was happening, what I was suggesting was happening.

"I understand what you're going through, Martin," I said quickly. "Believe me, I do. But all other attempts to explain what's happened in the last month when it comes to dealing with the God of the New World, and the primitives' collective belief in it...and especially everything we heard from Stuart...what Wesley and I saw today at Alex's home." I gestured at Alex. "And Alex himself."

"It can't be that simple," Martin said.

"I'm not saying it is. I can't even begin to claim that I've identified the God of the New World as Hanbi. There's so much we don't know about prehistoric man and his beliefs. But what if..." I was on a roll, my thoughts tumbling into my head and rushing out of my mouth in a torrent. "...what if something existed with prehistoric man. Something that was real and possessed some kind of psychic power. Something that primitive man worshipped. And what if it came back when that chemical compound did its thing."

"Shit," Martin whispered. I think he was getting the message.

"So what—" Lori began, then stopped in mid-sentence.

I felt the presence then at that point too. So did the others.

First, the sounds. They were moaning, gibberish sounds, from outside.

Then, the footsteps. Some slow and stealthy, others plodding and clumsy.

The scent of carrion wasn't too far behind.

Wesley glanced out the window. "Everybody take your positions!" His voice had a nervous, shaky edge to it and I don't blame him. This was all coming at us too fast.

Shortly after we arrived at the cabin a month ago, we'd come up with an emergency plan should our homestead face any kind of physical threat, whether from hostile humans or an invading horde of primitives. We'd long ago moved the large entertainment center that flanked the west wall of the living room out into the storage shed and replaced it with several very large gun cabinets we procured from our first trip into town. That's where we stored the weapons and ammunition. All the firearms were fully loaded, with the right size magazines and ammo within easy reach for fast procurement. At the sound of "take your positions," everybody was to grab a weapon and as many clips and ammo as possible and then disperse to their pre-assigned positions around the property: I was to take the front perimeter which faced north, Wesley the east, Lori the south and Martin the west. Tracy would handle the interior of the house, the idea being that we had no idea of knowing when such a scenario would take place, and it was possible she would have to whisk Emily upstairs to safety. Being that Emily was already upstairs and knew not to come downstairs if she heard gunfire, eliminated that mad dash to whisk our daughter to safety. All Tracy had to do was grab a weapon and hold down the interior of the house.

We sprang into action quickly, just as the first war cry howl resounded from outside.

"Fuck!" Martin grunted. He was throwing bundles of magazine pouches over his shoulder.

I grabbed a M4 and a pair of magazines pouches—the clips already loaded and ready—and a Glock .45 semi-automatic handgun, stuffed it in the right front pocket of my slacks, and dashed to the front of the house as the rest of my clan took their positions around the house.

The moment I exited the front door I heard two simultaneous screams and yells. One was from Wesley. "What the fuck!?"

The other was from the front line of primitives who were approaching the front of the house. For a moment I almost balked; it was pitch dark outside and I couldn't see shit, but I could feel their presence. They were ten, maybe fifteen yards away from me, and they were making no attempt at being quiet now. I heard a gurgling howl and then Tracy flipped on the floodlights that lined the perimeter of the house.

And there, standing in front of me, nearly shoulder to shoulder and across the entire perimeter of the front yard, were primitives.

An old Biblical verse came to me. I am Legion.

I yelled and let them have it with the M4 as they cried out in unison and charged.

I could hear gunfire erupt from the east end of the property.

The magazines we had for the M4 held fifty rounds of 9 mm ammo. I mowed down close to that many in under a minute. Rocks were hurled in my direction like missiles, most striking the house and breaking windows, two of them hitting me in the shoulder and chest. Another band of primitives was quickly coming to join the fray and I ejected the spent magazine and slapped in a fresh one, focusing my attention on this new wave of primitives, who were greater in number. I yelled out a war whoop as I shot them, firing indiscriminately at anything that moved, but they kept coming, throwing rocks and what appeared to be crudely shaped spears. I ducked, blocked the invading missiles, received a glancing blow on my head and back for my trouble, but ignored the pain. For the first time, they kept coming.

I slapped in another fresh magazine and barely got the weapon back up to fire again when this next wave was almost on me. I shot ten primitives in quick succession, but then four got past me and another slammed into me from the right, knocking me on my ass. I was dimly aware of a sudden outburst of gunfire that flew over me as I fought the primitive that tackled me. Once again I was bit, this time in the upper arm. I yelled as the primitive's jaws locked on the flesh of my biceps and tore a chunk of flesh away. I grabbed the Glock from my slacks pocket and in one quick motion gut shot the primitive.

I heard screams, and it wasn't until later that I realized those screams weren't coming from me.

I was totally oblivious to what else was going on around me. My sole focus was in keeping the primitives away from the front entrance of the house. Specifically, to keep them from entering through the front door and windows. But it was obvious that Tracy was holding her own and keeping the interior of the house free of those primitives that breached my perimeter.

I shoved the dying primitive off me and stayed low, swinging my M4 around to point it at the ever-invading horde that was still coming. I took down another dozen, maybe more, and then I was joined briefly by Tracy who took down a bunch. She looked like a woman possessed, firing her weapon with mad determination, a lock of hair hanging over a gash in her forehead.

This latest onslaught from the front of the house seemed to be under control now. I quickly assessed the situation as I changed magazines. "You okay?" I asked Tracy. Dozens of dead and dying primitives lay all over the porch and the front yard, extending well into the grassy field beyond. I heard a generous babble of primitives from the east end of the house; some of them showed themselves and, upon seeing us, began heading in our direction.

"I'm okay," Tracy said, reloading her own firearm. The bleeding on her forehead didn't appear too bad.

"I can handle these," I said. "Go back and secure the inside of the house, I can take these."

Tracy darted back in the house and I took this latest wave of primitives down, ignoring the enormous pain in my left arm from the bite wound that was bleeding profusely.

A third wave of primitives descended on us and I quickly took them down, blowing some apart as the shells tore their bodies into bloody shards. I heard an excited yell from Wesley, heard running footsteps and then he was at my side, rifle in hand. The entire left side of his head was caked in blood that appeared to be soaking his shoulder and left arm. "Motherfuckers!" he yelled as he joined me, shooting indiscriminately at the primitives that came at us.

My M4 was growing hot in my hands. I ejected the spent magazine, slapped another one in and raised the weapon. There were only a few primitives left, and they seemed confused. They stood there, immobile, as if torn between running away or continuing the attack. I heard Martin call out from the west. "Everything okay back there?"

"Got it covered!" Wesley answered. He raised his rifle, took careful aim, and took the remaining four or five primitives down.

But I still heard more of them. The sound of their voices—that guttural, demonic sound—was clearly audible.

And it was coming from the south side of the house. Where Lori had taken up position.

With the north side of the house now secure (so far) from primitives, I cradled the now-hot M4 in my hands and flattened myself against the wall. "Tracy, are we clear in the house?"

"Clear!"

"Lori, are you okay?"

No answer.

"Shit," Wesley muttered. Crouching low, he moved ahead of me toward the east side of the house.

"Cover the front door!" I called out to Tracy. Then, I followed Wesley.

I could barely breathe as I followed Wesley around to the south side of the house. Those primitive, ugly sounds grew louder the closer we got to the corner.

Wesley stopped at the edge. We waited. The sounds continued, accompanied by what appeared to be some jostling, rummaging around. It was hard to tell how many primitives were there.

Wesley nodded at me and mouthed "On three." I nodded, and he counted off silently. When he mouthed "three" we jumped out to the south side of the house, weapons raised at the scene in front of us. I was so surprised by what I saw that I was momentarily frozen.

I caught everything in a brief snapshot. A group of a dozen primitives gathered around Lori, who looked badly beaten and injured. Her T-shirt was ripped off her body and there were several bad gashes that ripped across her torso. Her left breast appeared mutilated and was hanging by strips of flesh off her chest. Likewise, the right side of her face had a chunk of flesh torn off, showing the teeth and jawbone.

By all rights she should have either been dead or unconscious from shock.

But her eyes were wide open.

And she was no longer there.

When Wesley and I showed ourselves, those eyes locked on us.

But that wasn't what made Wesley and I freeze briefly in sheer terror.

It was the sight of the desiccated thing that stood behind Lori, one bony claw-like hand gripping her shoulder.

At first I didn't recognize what it could be. First thing I thought was it had to be the most fucked-up looking primitive I've ever seen. Its skin tone was greenish, actually tan-looking in some areas. Its limbs were withered sticks; its torso and hips looking even more skeletal save for the stomach bloat that pushed the tattered T-shirt it wore to the breaking point. I quickly surmised that at one point this primitive had to have been a punker—its hair appeared spiky, with a long blonde Mohawk running along the center. I was just recognizing this fact and noticing the multiple piercings it had on its ears, when Wesley whispered, "Heather."

My body went numb.

Now the gunshot wound to the head was clear. Left temple, big giant exit wound. Right temple, little-bitty hole, from where Wesley had shot her that night a month back, when we were in California. It was Heather all right. Dead and reanimated by the God of the New World.

She chuckled.

The other primitives turned to us and I quickly saw that they were dead, too. Some were in various states of decay; some had a stench that clung to them like a foul miasma. They didn't charge us. They stood grouped around Heather as Lori was propped up between them like a large mannequin.

"I got the nigger," Heather said...only it wasn't Heather. It was the God of the New World speaking through her. Its voice was rough, ageless, sexless, and cunningly evil. "I got her, and now I'm going to kill that mongoloid half-breed baby of yours...David!"

"And I'm going to eat that bitch you call a wife," Lori said. Again, it wasn't Lori speaking. The voice coming from Lori's vocal chords was the God of the New World.

That broke my paralysis.

I screamed at the top of my lungs.

And opened fire.

Thirty rounds slammed into them at close range—ten feet. That kind of firepower from that close can do a lot of damage to living flesh. With the reanimated primitives, it blew them apart. Steaming corpse chunks rained down, spraying wet chunks of gunk everywhere. Wesley joined in and within seconds all of them were reduced to pieces. Heather's upper half was completely separated from her waist, her left arm blown completely off. Somehow, amid all the gunfire, she took another headshot.

If Lori wasn't dead in the brief moment I temporarily lost my mind and opened fire, she was surely killed in the first second. I only hope that if she was, she was killed instantly and didn't suffer any pain.

When my magazine ran out I ejected it and immediately slapped in a fresh one. My rifle was so hot in my hands it burned. I didn't care. I was going to kill every last one of these motherfuckers.

"Oh shit, I don't believe it," Martin yelled. He was still at his position, on the west side of the property. I heard him fire a couple shots. "They're coming back!"

The moment he yelled that I sensed a stirring nearby. I whirled around and my heart leaped into my chest.

The dead primitives that now littered the perimeter of the house were beginning to rise.

"Oh shit," I said. I threw the now burning rifle on the ground, drew the .45 and stormed back onto the porch, making a beeline to the house. I had to get another rifle.

From the house, Tracy was screaming. There was a burst of gunfire from inside. In front of me, a newly risen primitive dropped to the ground.

"Tracy!" I yelled.

"They're coming back!" Tracy yelled back. "What the hell?"

In the yard and the field in front of the house, the dead primitives were coming back to life. They seemed to be possessed, as if powered by something else entirely. They pulled their mangled bodies together, shuffling forward. Some were so badly torn apart that they pulled themselves along with one arm, or with large chunks blown away.

I took one down with a clean headshot from ten yards away. From the corner of my eye I could see Tracy cowering in fear, rifle clutched in her hands, behind the threshold of the front door. The other primitives were lethargic, as if they were slowly awakening from a deep sleep. I dashed in the house and past Tracy, heading toward the gun cabinet.

Pounding footsteps came from both sides of the house, followed by staccato blasts of gunfire. Wesley and Martin. I grabbed another M4 and headed back toward the front door. "Whatever happens, keep Emily safe," I said. I spared one brief glance at Tracy, then stepped out onto the porch.

I'll admit at this point, time became a blur to me. Looking back, it was as if I'd stepped into a weird kind of alternate universe scripted by George Romero. The dead were coming back to life and my clan bravely fought them. Once again, our weaponry proved to be superior; bullets shattered bone, pulverized flesh, tore through limbs, blew heads off. The main difference in this wave of attacks was the voice of the God of the New World coming from the throats of all those primitives. And they were all saying the same thing, over and over.

"Going to kill that mongoloid baby of yours..."

"Going to eat that bitch you call a wife..."

"I got the nigger and now I'm gonna get that wetback faggot..."

"...gonna scalp that redskin Indian motherfuck..."

"...gonna shove Wesley's severed head up his ass..."

And all I could do was yell and shoot, eject spent magazines, slap in fresh ones with one fluid motion and continue the assault. I think I reached some kind of zone where I became a killing machine.

At one point I heard Tracy yell, "Oh shit!", followed by a heavy burst of gunfire toward the south end of the house. A moment later she came back. I could hear her behind me, guarding the interior of the house as she reloaded. "A bunch of them just tried to get in through the side," she said. "I think one of them was Lori."

There was a brief lull in the fighting. I swapped magazines and acknowledged her. "Lori's dead," I said.

Tracy said nothing.

From the west side of the house, more gunfire. "Fuck!" Wesley barked.

I glanced out at the yard in front of the house. Primitives that had been killed twice were rising again for a third go-round. I raised the rifle and took careful aim at one, to see if the myths were right. A headshot took it down and I waited, not expecting much to change. Sure enough, getting shot in the head wasn't much of a deterrent. It was still moving and it began to slowly pick itself up off the ground. "Shit."

"Shooting them in the head doesn't work!" Wesley yelled. "You've got to totally pick them apart!"

"What?"

"Shoot the fuck out of 'em! I got one here that ain't got a head and it's running into the wall. Another one doesn't have any legs and it's dragging itself along the ground." There was a series of gunshots. "Now that one's missing a head and it's not going anywhere, but it's still twitching."

I heard Martin join in. It sounded like Martin had joined Wesley on his side of the property now. "It's stopped moving."

That was it. The formula for killing these things once and for all. Total disarticulation. Made sense. Tear a puppet or a doll into several pieces and you make it harder for the puppeteer to manipulate it. Still, would even that be enough? For a brief moment a hideous vision of severed limbs crawling toward the house came to me and I banished it from my mind. We had to do something!

With a new sense of purpose, I stepped forward and continued shooting, blowing further chunks out of them. We were joined by Martin, who concentrated on a mass of living-dead primitives that were stirring near the west end of the property. Tracy actually stepped outside at one point and mowed down a bunch near the south side of the house as Wesley slipped inside. I ran out of ammo and was slapping a fresh magazine inside when he came back out. With one quick movement, he lit what I now took to be a torch he was holding in his left hand. "Let's see how they like this," he said as he stepped off the porch and headed toward a line of dead and shot up primitives who were still trying to move.

The sight of the blazing torch didn't deter them. Wesley threw the torch into a mass of primitives. They immediately went up in a blazing inferno.

While our adrenaline and the edge Wesley had given us with his idea to burn the undead primitives made me feel that we might win this latest battle, I couldn't help but feel a twinge that the God of the New World was gnashing his teeth in anger at this latest turn of events. If his sights had been turned away from us in the past month while we'd been in hiding, they were surely on us now thanks to its possession of the undead primitives. I had the sense that this force, whatever it was, knew our location.

If that was the case we had to get out of our new home and do it fast. That meant killing the rest of the undead primitives by fire as quickly as possible.

"We need more of those torches!" I yelled at Martin and Tracy. Another band of undead primitives was wandering over to me and I shot them, buying another twenty seconds of time. "Let's go, let's go!"

With Wesley's assistance, Martin and Tracy brought out more torches as I kept things covered. They got the torches lit, then threw them out into the bands of primitives. I followed with volley after volley of gunshots, further scattering their limbs and heads, causing some to flee directly into infernos of their brethren. Working in concert, we managed to beat back this latest wave of primitives by the most primal weapon known to mankind: fire.

My rifle was growing hot in my hands again. The heat from the fires caused by the pyres of undead primitives were creating a susurration of heat and burning flesh. Unlike the movies, these undead did not flail around with burning limbs akimbo; if they had, they would've run into the house and we'd be in danger of losing that, too. Instead, they simply seemed to collapse right there and give up the ghost.

It looked like we were finally getting the upper hand. Those primitives who were killed and had come back were now either so blown apart by gunfire that they were flopping around limbless and/or headless, or they were burning. I felt a sudden burst of hope that the tide had turned despite the presence of the God of the New World. Perhaps if we eliminated as many of the primitives in our general area in the way we'd just killed all these—by fire—we would temporarily blind its gaze on us, allowing us to escape.

I turned to Martin. "There were a bunch along the side of the house. Make sure you get rid of them the same way. I'm going to check inside."

"Kill Alex while you're at it," Martin said grimly.

"You got it."

I stepped inside the house. Wesley was still on the porch, rifle in hand, surveying the burning landscape in front of us. At this point the fires appeared controllable, but that could change. We had to assess the rest of the perimeter and make plans to leave in a hurry if we had to.

As I stepped in the house I saw Tracy standing in the living room, looking at the stairway that led to the upper floors. She seemed frozen in fear. At first I couldn't grasp my mind around what she was seeing—a trail of red that ran up the stairs. I barely noticed Alex's continued satanic-sounding groans behind his gag when Tracy suddenly broke out of her paralysis. "Oh my God, Emily!"

"What?" I asked.

Just then, Emily screamed.

And then I knew.

Heather.

Twenty One

My heart was in my throat as Tracy and I ran up the stairs.

Emily was screaming. It was the most awful, most heart-wrenching scream I'd ever heard. It filled me with terror and despair. It drove me to fury.

As we burst into our wing of the house I saw that trail of red slime traverse the sitting room into our bedroom. Emily was screaming at the top of her lungs.

Tracy entered the bedroom first, but I wasn't far behind.

It was at that moment the floodlights outside went out.

I saw Tracy flip the light switch on. The bedroom light failed to go on.

I cursed under my breath.

Emily continued to scream.

"Emily!" I yelled.

If it hadn't been for the moonlight filtering in through the open window, we wouldn't have had any light to see by. As it was, the sight that greeted us was awful and froze my heart in terror.

Heather had dragged herself into the house and up the stairs by pulling herself along the floor with her remaining arm. Her severed torso left trails of gore along the floor. Her head lolled back on a neck that was partly blown-out from a gunshot wound, partly from rot. How she managed to drag herself this far I have no idea, but she was here, and she'd not only managed to pull herself up on the bed, she was grinning at Emily the way a cat will stare down a mouse. Emily was cowering against the head of the bed, totally oblivious that we were even there. With the way she was positioned, neither Tracy nor I had a clear shot.

I took a quick step to my right, then launched myself at Heather just as she growled and, propelling herself forward with her arm, lunged at Emily.

I knocked Heather off the bed, landing on top of her. I felt a fury of blind rage and hate envelop me as we crashed to the floor. Heather growled, her voice gravelly and evil, and shoved me off. Despite being a rotting corpse, she was strong—obviously the power of the God of the New World was running strong in her. She grabbed the mattress and began pulling herself up on the bed as I saw Tracy rush over and scoop Emily up in her arms.

"Aaaarrrrrrhhhh!" Heather growled as she clambered lizard-like up the bed.

Tracy had a firm grasp on Emily, who was still screaming and trying to escape now. She was in a fight-or-flight mode and was so worked up she didn't know who Tracy was. Tracy hauled her off the bed and crept along the outer wall of the house by the window, circling the bed, trying to stay as far away from Heather as possible. Heather tracked them with her ravaged face and prepared to launch herself at them again.

I heaved myself up and with one swift motion brought the barrel of the M4 down on her back and fired. A volley of shots tore through her. Empty casings pinged off the floor, raining around the room. Tracy dropped her rifle and shielded Emily by covering her head and face with her arms.

And still, Heather kept moving. I circled the bed, getting a better aim at her head, my backstop clear and free now. I shot her again, blowing her head apart. It looked like a bomb blowing up inside a carved out pumpkin. Heather dropped to the bed and I felt the rage of that demon, the God of the New World, swirl around me in its white-hot hate.

Stumbling footsteps pounded up the stairs and a moment later Martin and Wesley were in the room. I raised my hand up to them; I didn't need them shooting into the room indiscriminately. "We're covered."

"Oh my God," Wesley said as he saw the twitching remains of Heather on the bed.

Martin went ashen.

Emily was still screaming. She was crying now, too. She hid her face from us, burying it in the hollow of Tracy's throat. "Is it dead?" Tracy asked.

I took a step forward. What remained of Heather finally stopped moving.

"It is now," I said.

"It'll come back, though," Wesley said. "We need to destroy it for good."

"How are we going to do that?" I asked.

"Give me a hand. We'll throw it outside and into one of those fires."

I was apprehensive, but did it. I don't know how I made it through without throwing up. Touching what was left of Heather was too terrible, so traumatic, that I was on the verge of panic as I helped Wesley carry her remains through the house then into one of four fires that were burning outside.

As we threw Heather's corpse into the flames I was struck by the fact that even though we'd won this battle, the overall fight was not over. There were literally billions of these things left, scattered all over the world. Were some of them even now heading our way in a concerted effort, guided by the God of the New World, set to destroy us?

"We're going to have to get out of here," I said.

"I know," Wesley answered.

There was another volley of gunshots from inside and my heart leaped in my chest again. I started toward the house and then Martin called out from inside. "It's okay. Just taking care of Alex."

Still, the very idea that we were in imminent danger was distressing to me. I entered the house and helped Martin carry Alex's now mutilated remains outside quickly—he'd been decapitated by gunfire and I simply grabbed his head by the hair and carried that part of him out (that wasn't so bad, actually).

"Are there any more out there that aren't burning?" I asked Wesley.

"I don't know," Wesley admitted. "Most of them eventually gathered here in the front, but there are those at the side unaccounted for."

"I'll stand watch while you get some more torches," I said. I reloaded my rifle as I talked. "You and Martin take care of them. I need to check on my family."

Wesley nodded and headed inside for more torches. Martin joined me and I explained to him what was going on. We stood guard on the porch until Wesley came back out bearing two torches. He got one lit, handed the other to Martin, who quickly got his ablaze. Then, they set off.

I did a quick sweep of the ground floor of the house and then darted upstairs.

Tracy had taken Emily to the opposite wing of the house, where Wesley had slept. She sat on Wesley's bed and cradled our daughter in her arms, doing her best to soothe her. Emily was sobbing hoarsely now and she was coughing. Her hair was sweaty, hanging in her eyes in wet tangles. I sat down next to them and felt helpless. "Everything's okay now, honey."

Emily could only cry uncontrollably.

Tracy met my gaze over Emily's small form. Once again, we were on the same wavelength. We not only had to leave this place, we had to draw our circle even tighter. I wasn't sure if Tracy meant we had to cut Martin and Wesley loose, but I knew instinctively that we could no longer trust strangers. As much as Alex had been an innocent victim, he'd led the primitives and the God of the New World directly to our steps. I had a feeling that if we'd killed him the moment he set foot on our property, we would not have attracted the God's attention. It had possessed Naomi, whom we visited and killed—surely she had to be one of the undead hordes of primitives now burning outside. That was all it needed to get our scent.

But if this disease, this virus that flipped the DNA strand, was communicable, then Alex obviously had it.

And he'd probably passed it on to one of us.

"Lori turned," I said quietly. "Martin and I shot her outside."

"That thing on the bed was Heather," Tracy said.

"Yeah," I confirmed. "It was Heather."

Tracy sighed. Still cradling our daughter, she summed everything up quickly. "If it can reanimate the dead it can tap into all the emotions we all carry inside. That's how it found us, through Heather. It used the hatred she had toward us."

"Why isn't this affecting us, though?" I asked. "Why hasn't it taken over us the way it did with Alex and Naomi?"

Tracy was silent for a moment. Emily's sobs were growing quieter. She looked up at Tracy, her eyes wide and worried. "Mommy?"

"You're safe," Tracy whispered. She brushed a strand of Emily's hair back and kissed her. "Go to sleep, honey."

Emily turned her head so that she was looking at me. Her eyes focused on me and she smiled. "Daddy!"

I managed a smile. "Hey pumpkin, how you feeling?"

"Better." Her expression seemed to suggest she was bottling her recent trauma up to deal with at another time. I reached out and took her hand, rubbing her fingers. "It's still trying to get in."

"What's still trying to get in?"

"The devil."

"What do you mean, baby?" Tracy asked.

I was now one hundred percent convinced Emily was gifted—or cursed—with some kind of extra-sensory ability. Her predictions of Alex this morning had been dead on.

"It got into Heather and used her," Emily said. "But Heather got too broke up. Like when Eric tore apart one of my dolls that one time and I couldn't play with her anymore. Remember that Mommy?"

"I remember that," Tracy said. I nodded. I remembered that incident well. One of Eric's obsessions as an autistic child was taking things apart—toys, CD Jewel cases, fountain pens—basically anything he could get his hands on. He'd taken Emily's toys apart numerous times to the point that she started getting used to it. Hearing this from Emily confirmed my own theory on how Hanbi took possession of us and how it was able to manipulate the living and the dead.

"So...that thing is trying to get inside us?" I asked gently.

Emily nodded. "It's trying to find other openings, but it can't. It's very angry."

"Do you think it can get into us?" I asked.

Emily looked at me for a moment and appeared to think about this. Finally, she shook her head. "No. It can't. I don't know why but...it can't. And it doesn't like that."

Tracy and I traded a glance over Emily's head. "Emily, why was it able to get into Alex? You said earlier that he was a nice guy. It got into him, too."

"He was open," Emily said. "He and his wife were way open, she more than him. That's who it gets into."

"What do you mean by open?" Tracy asked.

"I don't know!" Emily sounded frustrated. Whatever she was feeling, she was simply describing it the best way she knew how.

"Are Martin and Wesley open?" I asked.

Emily shook her head emphatically. "No. Especially not Martin." She paused, her lips turning downcast as if she was about to cry again. "But Lori...Lori was open a little bit." She looked up at Tracy. "It got her, didn't it?"

Tracy glanced at me quickly, then nodded. "Yes, honey. It got her."

Emily sniffed back her tears and wiped her cheeks. Once again, she suddenly seemed very grown-up to me for a brief instant. "I was afraid that might happen."

Another glance between Tracy and me. How much does Emily know about this thing?

I wondered what Emily meant by being open. Did she mean open to spiritual belief? If that was the case, why hadn't it affected me? Despite my self-proclaimed agnostic beliefs, I always felt there was something out there. I'd always felt the spiritual world was too great for us mere mortals to understand. And what of Tracy, who, in her own terms had a belief in God but, in her words, wasn't a big admirer of His fan club. She was still a believer. So why weren't we affected? "So if everybody here isn't open," I began, thinking aloud, "then we're okay?"

Emily thought about that for a moment, then shook her head. "It will find others that are close by. And it'll use what it got from Heather and come back to find us here."

That told me all I needed to know. There would definitely be more of them.

"Do you know when this might happen, honey?" Tracy asked.

Emily said nothing again; she had a blank stare, as if she were in a trance. As suddenly as she went into it, she was out of it. "Soon," she said.

"So we should leave now?"

Emily nodded.

That decided it for me. I got up. "Get some things together. I'm going to tell Martin and Wesley and help them gather essentials. We should leave inside the next hour."

Tracy nodded and then Wesley's voice interrupted us.

"We got a radio broadcast! David, come down!"

Tracy gestured at me to go and I left the room to join Wesley.

Twenty Two

Through all the excitement and the adrenaline rush, my injured arm had gone to sleep. Now it was awake and screaming as I tore down the stairs and made my way to the radio room.

As I crossed the threshold I saw Wesley seated at the console. Martin wasn't anywhere to be seen. "Where's Martin?"

"Outside standing guard," Wesley said. He turned a knob on the control board. "Listen to this."

The pain in my upper left arm was growing enormous now. I gritted my teeth. "Let me take care of my arm first." I hustled out of the room.

"You okay?" Wesley asked. I could hear a voice coming over the radio, but I couldn't make out what was being said. It definitely wasn't Stuart's. Wesley followed me out. "Need help?"

"I just want to patch this up," I said. I made my way into the kitchen. The lights were still off and the kitchen was dark. I turned on a battery-powered flashlight and found the first aid kit. As I rummaged through it, Wesley got a look at my arm. I heard him draw in a breath. "One of them bit me," I explained.

"No shit," Wesley said. "This one looks worse than the one from earlier." Great, just what I needed to hear.

With his help, I got my chambray shirt off and Wesley helped me tend to the wound. By the light of the flashlight I saw that it was pretty damn ugly. Using the pail of water Tracy had drawn earlier, Wesley cleaned the wound with a washcloth. It stung, and the area around the wound felt hot. I hoped it wasn't infected. "You're gonna need stitches, David."

"I'll get Tracy to stitch me up later," I said. "Right now, I really think the first order of business is to pull up stakes and get the hell out of here."

"I agree, but you've got to hear what this guy is saying." Wesley poured some peroxide onto a clean compress and prepared to wash the bite wound with it. "Okay, hold steady. This is gonna hurt worse than a motherfuck."

When he applied the compress it felt like firecrackers were exploding in the wound. I hissed, almost cried out. I forced myself to stay where I was and not move as Wesley applied the compress on my arm. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"I know," Wesley said. His features looked grim. "But bite wounds from normal humans are nasty enough. No telling what kind of diseases these primitives are carrying. It wasn't a dead one that bit you, was it?"

"No," I said, the incident of the primitive barreling into me flashing before my eyes. "It wasn't."

"This thing has to be sewn up," Wesley said again. He withdrew the compress and rummaged in the first aid kit for a bandage. He found a large one, got it out of its packaging and applied it. "Does it hurt a lot when you move your arm?"

"It does now."

"This guy broadcasting," Wesley said as he applied the bandage. "It isn't Stuart, and he isn't broadcasting Stuart's call sign. He did give his location, though. He's in Chicago, top floor of a high rise. I think he's commandeered a really big radio or television station from the sound of it. There's at least two, maybe three other people with him."

"What's he saying?"

For the first time Wesley's eyes held a glimmer of hope. "He's calling this thing by the same goddamned name you called it, David. Hanbi. That was the exact words he used. I don't know how he made the connection, but he did. Or the people he's with made the connection. Whatever...get this. He's saying that Hanbi represents the father of various demons from ancient civilizations and that he's probably the oldest deity known to mankind. He has a theory that Hanbi was worshipped by primitive man well before the written word, during the Stone Age, and that the tradition was passed orally through the years. Anyway...he says he believes that as man advanced, belief in Hanbi died. This is pretty fucking obvious from what little you found in those books you brought back, but get this." Wesley leaned close to me and his hope was now obvious. It even lit a spark within me. "This guy is saying that when we reverted back to our primitive state it reawakened belief in Hanbi again. And because there's more primitives—the human population of primitive man is greater now than it has ever been before in the history of the World—Hanbi is stronger than he's ever been. And it's the primitives collective belief in Hanbi that has not only made him this strong, but is sustaining him."

I finished what Wesley was about to say. "So diminishing Hanbi's power means killing as many primitives as possible."

"Well...yeah." That spark died down a bit as the implications of trying to accomplish something this grand became obvious. Wesley stepped back.

I quickly stood up, favoring my left arm a bit. "I want to hear what he has to say," I said.

Wesley led me to the radio room. As we crossed the threshold, I heard the guy's transmission. "—kill them whenever you see them. The more you kill, the more you lessen Hanbi's power."

I nodded at the console. "Can we reach this guy?"

Wesley nodded and slid behind the console. He thumbed a switch and spoke into the mike. "I read you loud and clear, brother."

The guy stopped in mid-sentence. "Who do I have here?"

"Wesley, broadcasting from Montana."

I mouthed, is it a good idea to give away our location? Wesley nodded, gave me a thumbs up sign, but that didn't make me any calmer. For all I knew this guy could be a fraud.

"Wesley from Montana, this is Tim from Chicago. Good to make your acquaintance."

A second voice chimed in. Female. "This is Lynn from Massachusetts."

A third voice, a kid's from the sound of it, probably no more than fifteen, male. "I'm Justin, from Maryland."

Other voices chimed in. Male. Female. Young. Old. It became obvious these people had been on this guy's frequency for some time and had formed some kind of community here in radio-land. I lost track of the names, but there were roughly a dozen people, from all over the country. There were even a few from different countries; Australia, India, Germany, Brazil, Great Britain. As quickly as the introductions were made, Tim regained control. "We have several people broadcasting on different frequencies that are members of law enforcement and government. They're in secure locations I won't divulge. Some of them are working at establishing better communications with people overseas."

I felt a great relief come over me. I slumped down in a chair, my heart thudding. Was it really happening? Was this some attempt at trying to restore order?

"There was a guy named Stuart broadcasting with the WB3 call sign," Wesley said. "I think he was turned. He told me about...a traveling band of people who were killing people and taking hostages—"

"That group is being monitored," Tim said. "Trust me, we're aware of them."

I suddenly had a thousand questions. But where to start?

"We just suffered casualties on our end," Wesley continued. "A bunch of primitives attacked us at our location and killed one of our people. They also...we believe, that is...that Hanbi raised them back from the dead."

"Hanbi has the power to do that," One of the people said. This was a woman, older by the sound of her voice. Educated. "Hanbi is Satan, you know."

"No, I don't know," Wesley said. "I'm flying along with this whole Hanbi ancient God bullshit theory by the seat of my ass, lady. This thing is fucking real, it's not some fucking supernatural boogeyman that's—"

"You listen to me, Wesley," the woman said. The tone of her voice was direct. Commanding. In a past life she sounded like she could have been a schoolteacher and a firm disciplinarian. "This is not the devil of the pitchfork and hellfire and brimstone that Christianity teaches. This is a creature that was alive hundreds of thousands of years ago when primitive man first walked the earth. He was strong then, and their faith in him now has increased because there are so many more of them. When primitive man came back, his belief systems came back. Therefore, Hanbi returned."

"So Hanbi was real to them back then?" I ventured. "If that's the case, how come there's no archeological record?"

"There wasn't any because primitive man had no way of recording his belief system," the woman said. "The only hint we have of Hanbi is from ancient Assyrian writings." I felt a glimmer of vindication there at my earlier readings from the books I'd pilfered. "And as for physical records like engravings or remains, the record is scant. But let me tell you something. There are thousands of records and artifacts we've found that we have no explanation for, artifacts that date back to the early Paleolithic era that are simply filed away in museum basements because we don't know what they are."

"What are you, an anthropologist?

I detected the hint of a smile on the woman's lips. "As a matter of fact, I am. I'm Wendy Campbell, professor of Anthropology at Franklin and Marshall College in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. My specialty is ancient civilizations and prehistoric man."

I wanted Professor Campbell to confirm to me my theory of Pazuzu and Hanbi, my crazy theory that Hanbi was possessing the minds and bodies of the primitives at will, either alive or dead. I blurted this out and a couple of the people in our frequency chimed in to report they'd seen similar instances of possession. For a while we traded stories. Wesley related Stuart's story, when he witnessed the strange worship/ritual in downtown Philly and how the sacrificed primitive had been resurrected and how one of them began physically changing into an entirely different creature, a miniature version of what we were now freely calling Hanbi. "There's been long debate in my field as to whether Neanderthals held deep spiritual beliefs, much less performed sacrifices," Wendy said. "We just didn't know because we didn't have the evidence. I think it's safe to say those belief systems existed."

"But this thing," Wesley said, leaning over the console. "How can it manifest itself into a flesh and blood thing and have such tremendous power?"

"And how can it change people physically?" I asked.

"It isn't flesh and blood, but it sure seems that it is," Wendy agreed. She was silent for a moment. I was about to interject something else when she resumed. "Stigmata occurred in our former world. Devout Catholics would often manifest the wounds Jesus received when he was crucified. There are dozens of documented cases on it. Sometimes the stigmata would appear unbidden, with no outward will of the penitent. Demonic possession itself continued to be a hotly debated topic in the Roman Church. The advent of modern psychiatry had a lot to do with its eventual relegation to the closet, but the Catholic Church continued to investigate cases of demonic possession up through the early years of this current century. And what of speaking in tongues? That language is said to be of the heavens, of the very angels themselves, is said to overwhelm those of strong religious faith during times of spiritual fervor?"

I was wondering when she would evoke walking over burning rocks, self-mutilation for appeasement to various deities, or images of the Virgin Mary appearing in toast or the bark of a tree. She beat me to that last one. "And if you're expecting an explanation for images of the Virgin Mary appearing in a slice of pizza, then forget it. I don't take hallucinations seriously."

I grinned. "So...Hanbi...or the manifestation of Hanbi, is the result of the collective will and belief of millions of people who have suddenly reverted to mankind's most primitive state?"

"How is something like that possible?" Wesley intoned. "I mean...millions of people believed in an old dude who lived in the sky and had a long white beard and wore a long robe! How come he never physically materialized to clap his hands right before a fucking earthquake or tsunami or something?"

"People believed in God," Wendy explained. "And they probably had that image as you described, thanks to Michelangelo's portrait on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. But I think it's very safe to say that believers of all Abrahamic belief systems did not believe that God would physically manifest in the flesh in our world. And even when the theory was put forth in fiction, God came in the form of George Burns or Alanis Morrisette. Or a Polar Bear. Even when God was portrayed as the old man with the long white hair and beard holding a staff, nobody seriously believed he looked like that. That image was carefully cultivated and refined over thousands of years. Likewise for other God-like figures. Christ, for instance. As much as various religious sects wanted to believe Christ would return to earth and whisk the saved to heaven before the end times, as many times as the tribulations were predicted by various sects, that failed to happen because I believe, deep down, buried in our subconscious, those who held such beliefs never really expected them to happen."

"So why would this be any different?" I asked.

"How much history do you know?" Wendy asked.

"Quite a bit," I said. Wesley echoed this. Others chimed in their ignorance or knowledge of various historical events.

"Think back five hundred years ago, to the Spanish Inquisition. To the Salem Witch Trials," Wendy continued. "The belief in witchcraft and devil worship was widespread. The belief in demonic possession was as common as you or I believing in the science of gravity. Likewise, the belief that a person could be cursed with lycanthropy or vampirism was equally widespread. There are more cases of lycanthropy between the fifteenth and early nineteenth century than at any other time in recorded human history. Peter Stubbe is a well-documented lycanthrope. He was burned at the stake for being a werewolf in fifteenth century Germany. He's only one of many."

"Stubbe was what we'd call a serial killer today," I said. I was well aware of the Stubbe case from a volume on true crime I had at my old house, in a time that seemed far away from me now.

"True," Wendy observed. "But that doesn't explain the hundreds of cases I've unearthed in my graduate studies of medieval times. Witness accounts on record actually told of men—and women—physically changing into werewolves. Likewise, Church documents describe in great detail the physical changes that overcomes those who become possessed by demons or the devil himself."

I was beginning to grasp what Wendy was trying to say. "So the stronger somebody believes in something like this, the more likely it's bound to happen?"

"Exactly!"

"Wait a minute." This from one of the other people we were talking to. "So what you're saying is that if people were overly superstitious and sincerely believed if they were cursed, let's say by lycanthropy...they had a greater chance of actually becoming a werewolf?"

"In a sense, yes," Wendy said.

"I think that is such bullshit," Lynn from Massachusetts said.

"I think we all feel that way," Wendy continued. "But a fourteenth century—"

"A fourteenth century ignorant, uneducated peasant would believe it," I finished.

"Yes," Wendy said. "And the more concentrated the belief, the stronger the will to believe, by as many people as possible...the more likely the belief itself can manifest."

"You're suggesting mind over matter," Wesley said.

Wendy was silent for a moment. "That's exactly what I'm suggesting. Take telekinesis, for example. Telekinesis is the ability to physically move objects by the simple will of the mind. The focus of the mind on an object, like a pencil on a table, and to summon the power to move it...well, the phenomenon has been studied in controlled environments and proven. There were theories that everybody possesses some degree of telekinesis and are never aware of it, while in others it's much stronger, so much so that it's obvious they have the 'gift' of mind over matter."

"Which means that psychotics who claimed they saw a giant purple bunny chasing them, or a pink elephant dancing down their street were literally speaking the truth?" Sarcastic, yes, but I couldn't help it. What Wendy was suggesting was ludicrous.

"To some degree, yes," Wendy stated. "But the thing to remember is that those around them did not share their belief in the giant purple bunny, much less the pink elephant, therefore they never saw them."

"But if enough people shared the belief, the purple bunny would be real?"

"Not enough people, David. The majority of the human population."

I let that sink in.

"That could explain why certain places in the world that report hauntings, like Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, report higher occurrences in ghosts," Tim suggested. "When you visit Gettysburg you almost expect a ghost to show up."

"True," Wendy said. "And I'm sure the combined will strengthens their manifestation in that area."

"It would also suggest those medieval stories you mentioned," Lynn stated. She sounded like she was a pleasant enough lady. Mid-thirties maybe. "I remember reading stuff about medieval history, how people literally saw the devil."

"Or angels or whatever," somebody else chimed in.

"It would explain the stories of Pan in Greek mythology," Tim said. "The ancient Greeks were concentrated in a particular area, and their mythology was very centralized. Once Pan was described, those who saw him saw a little goat man frolicking with the fauns."

"So in a sense, belief was stronger back then," Wesley said. He was nodding. He almost looked like he was accepting this crazy belief. If Martin could only hear this he'd go apeshit.

"Belief was much stronger then," Wendy reiterated. "And belief was taken literally. Today even the most devout Christian can accept the scientific knowledge that the world wasn't created in six days but can see the Genesis story as allegory."

"Try telling that to those crazy fuckers who started that Creationist Museum in Kentucky," I muttered.

Wendy laughed. It was the first genuine human laugh I'd heard since this whole crazy mess started. "Again, the literal believers had become a minority. A vocal minority, I might add, but a minority nonetheless. But even among them, I'm confident that few of them literally believed Jesus would descend on a fiery throne to whisk His followers to Heaven in advance of the end times. They might have truly believed this, but I think as a species we've evolved so much from that part of our psyche—which many scientists call our belief center of the brain."

"What's that mean?" Tim asked.

"There was a scientific theory that all humans share a common trait," Wendy explained. "It's hardwired into our brains. Quite simply, it is the compulsion to believe in the extra-sensory, the spiritual, in a greater cause. It's an interesting theory, and a recent one, and could provide ample explanation for why entire families adhere to certain strong religious beliefs while others simply don't, even those who live in a community where they're outnumbered by deeply religious people."

"So this compulsion..." I began, thinking out loud. "...in its most primitive form would compel us to not only believe, but to actually manifest that belief into being."

"Precisely."

Once again we were all silent as we digested this bit of information.

"We don't know much about Hanbi," Wendy said, breaking the silence. "That can be attributed to Neanderthals and early Homo sapiens not leaving much in the archeological record. But judging from what I'm seeing in the past month or so since...since this travesty..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I can see that Hanbi was not only a very real deity to our ancestors due to the primitive nature of that part of our brains...it's very obvious Hanbi was seen as an evil deity. If there was an opposite of Hanbi—a God representative—I haven't found it in the archeological records. The concept of God might have developed on a different level. Those who believed in a spiritual good probably worshipped through ways we don't understand yet. But Hanbi...Hanbi worship was different. I think it's safe to say that certain sects of primitive man worshipped him and believed he would manifest himself on earth."

"Certain sects?" I asked.

Tim cleared his throat. "Have any of you seen Hanbi?"

"No," Wesley said.

"We've heard the stories," I interjected.

"Tell me."

I reminded them of the story Wesley had told them earlier, the one Stuart related to us. When I was finished Tim said, "Stuart saw a very big mass of primitives running wild through the streets of Philadelphia. Those are what I'm starting to call the normal ones. Then there is that other subset...that second set you mentioned that drew Hanbi's image and performed the ritual."

"Yeah?"

"They were smaller in number, correct?"

"According to Stuart they were."

"He never saw the others?"

"He never mentioned them."

"They were probably hiding," Tim continued. "We're finding that primitives in large metropolitan areas remain there. They don't leave for open areas or rural communities, much less the surrounding countryside. They also tend to steer clear of those primitives who scrawl images of Hanbi on walls...or engage in ritualistic worship."

I felt a chill run down my spine. "You've seen this?"

Tim's voice was grim. "I see it every other day from this high rise I'm sitting in. The moment a pack of primitives who worship Hanbi draw near, other primitives scatter. It's like it's hardwired into them that Hanbi's followers are bad news. Are evil."

I let this sink in.

Wendy picked up on Tim's theory. "We think this was where the original theories of the devil came from. Perhaps he was conjured up by some spiritual leader to keep his clan in line and Hanbi's legend grew from there over the years to eventually manifest into what he later became."

I had a thousand questions. The photos of those cave paintings in Spain. Had the spiritual knowledge of Hanbi spread wide in prehistoric times? For some reason, I believed this was the case.

"And now that there are many more primitives," Wendy continued, her voice low. "Much more than ever in the history of mankind, that collective will has literally summoned him into an actual being. That is why he is here."

"So to kill Hanbi, we have to kill as many primitives as possible," Wesley said. He glanced at me. How the hell were we going to do that?

"Theoretically, yes," Wendy said. "It would seem to be the only way."

Wesley blinked, sat up in his chair. "Uh...Wendy? You said there were survivors from our government and law enforcement online?"

"Yes. They're monitoring other frequencies. There's a few dozen sequestered in a bunker somewhere in the DC area and they've—"

"I'm a member of the US Army, One Hundred and Twenty-First Division, Fort Bragg, North Carolina," Wesley said. His voice was stronger now, more authoritative. "I need to know what frequency I can reach them at, and who to talk to."

"Twenty meters at 28500," Wendy answered. "Ask for Bob Atkins. He used to be a US Senator."

"Thank you. I'll be back shortly." Wesley quickly disconnected from that frequency, turned off the equipment and turned to me. "We need to get out of here. Gather everybody together and get as many weapons as possible. Pack only a few days worth of food. Tell Martin to remain at his post—you'll have to gather his things, too. Meet me in the garage at 0600 hours. We'll be taking the Hummer that's in the garage."

"The Hummer?" We'd never used the Hummer that the previous owner of this cabin housed in the garage, aside from the one time Wesley managed to get it started. Lori had later found the keys to it and they were now sitting on the kitchen counter. "Why?"

"Last time I checked, that Hummer had a radio in it," Wesley said. I immediately knew what he was getting at; a high-frequency radio to monitor communications and keep in touch with our new surviving comrades.

I glanced at my watch. Miraculously, it wasn't broken. It was a quarter after twelve.

"You don't think we should leave sooner?"

"It's been over two hours since the last attack," Wesley said. "And I think the one thing about us that hasn't changed since we were like them is that they're more active during the daytime."

I nodded. Made sense. That first attack had happened during twilight, when they'd probably spent a good portion of the day on the journey to reach our compound. "Emily felt the next attack could happen soon," I persisted.

"Yeah, and I believe her. That'll probably be early this morning. But you need some rest, and so does Tracy and Emily."

"What about you and Martin?"

"I'll get an hour of sleep in the Hummer. Martin can sleep on the drive over."

"The drive over to where?"

Once again there was that glimmer of hope in Wesley's features. "I don't want to jump the gun on this yet...but I think I have a plan."

Twenty Three

I couldn't sleep. Try as I might, I barely got two hours in.

After giving Martin a quick recap and assuring myself that he was okay to stand watch all night, I quickly gathered some provisions and personal belongings. I stowed them in the garage carefully by the Hummer. As I worked I heard Wesley in the radio room talking to somebody. It wasn't Tim, or Wendy, or any of the people from our previous conversation, so he must have been talking to Bob Atkins, ex-US Senator in Washington DC. And that got me to thinking.

Years ago, when I was just starting out as a writer, I supported myself by writing a series of men's action-adventure novels under a pseudonym, among other things. Over a period of three or four years I probably wrote ten of the things (along with movie and TV tie-ins and other writer-for-hire books). You may have seen books like that on the racks in department stores like Wal-Mart, or at truck stops. You know the drill: The Specialist. The Executioner. The Destroyer. The Penetrator. MIA. They all had a central character who carried the series, usually a guy in his late twenties or early thirties who was ex-military, maybe CIA or Special Ops, who was a killing machine and skilled at all kinds of weaponry and martial arts, who also possessed other talents like cryptography, or computer intelligence, or whatever. Think James Bond and you'll get the picture. Thanks to Ian Fleming's character, the publishing industry milked that particular genre by buying and creating numerous imitations, some created by other writers wanting to cash in, others created by the publishing firms themselves, hiring writers to churn the things out under what is known in the industry as a "house name." I think before the world as we knew it ended there had been something like three hundred or more volumes of The Destroyer series, with one book appearing every month or so for the past thirty years.

Thanks to those brief sojourns into writing quick pulp work for rent and food money, I became familiar with things most people never think about, much less pay attention to about our government.

One of those things was knowing that there were numerous underground bunkers and bomb shelters beneath Washington, D.C., Virginia, and parts of Maryland.

Of course, I didn't know their exact location. I remember when working on the first few books in the series I was writing, Black Ops, I asked the creator, a grizzled pulp veteran who'd penned the first three books in the series and later went on to become a best-selling author of military suspense fiction, how he'd found out about these secret bunkers. "Careful research and asking the right people," he'd told me over the phone. "I just needed to know enough to make it believable so I can make everything else up!"

So I didn't know their exact location, but I knew they existed. Therefore, it made perfect sense for those in government who were unaffected during those first chaotic forty-eight hours of the change, to high-tail it to those secret bunkers where they'd be safe from nuclear or ground assault, where they would probably be fortified with high-tech communications equipment as well as food and other supplies.

Which meant there was the possibility that there was some form of government left and they were trying to restore order out of all the chaos that had erupted.

Now that glimmer of hope was growing.

When I was finished I went upstairs and did a quick survey of the grounds. The fires had died down, or were close to it, and I could see Martin outside, rifle ready to shoot at anything that moved as he ensured all the primitives were burnt to a crisp. I headed to Wesley's wing of the house and did a quick survey of our things to make sure I'd packed everything. Then I slid out of my dirty clothes and climbed into bed with Tracy and Emily.

Tracy stirred as I slipped into bed beside her. She came awake with a start. "Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"It's okay," I whispered. I kissed her shoulder. "Go back to sleep."

"Everything okay?"

"Yes. They're all dead."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. We're leaving at the crack of dawn."

"Leaving?" Tracy made to sit up but I gently pushed her back down. Emily stirred slightly beside her and stuck her thumb in her mouth.

"We need some sleep," I said, gently but forcefully. "Martin is standing watch, and Wesley is getting everything ready. We'll get up tomorrow and leave at six. I've already got things packed for us."

"Where are we gonna go?" Tracy obviously understood why we were leaving so quickly.

"I don't know yet." The urge to tell her what I'd learned was strong, but I also knew that if I gave one hint of it she'd demand to hear more and that would keep us up longer. We needed to recharge our batteries and that meant getting to sleep. "We need to get some rest. Come on."

Tracy allowed herself to lie back down. I scooted close to her, swung my injured arm around her waist. It still throbbed despite the aspirin I'd taken.

The throbbing of my injured arm kept me awake for at least another forty minutes. Tracy dropped back off to sleep within a minute.

I listened to her labored breathing, watched mother and daughter snuggled close together in sleep, mother draping a protective arm over her child, hugging her close. I silently settled into position on my right side, my arm around Tracy's waist, a symbolic gesture of my own attempt at protecting my clan, my tribe, my family. Part of me felt helpless, but another part of me was ready to do anything to protect Tracy and Emily. I knew that if it came between the three of us and the rest of our clan, I would fight harder for their lives. That instinct to protect, to keep them from harm's way, was part of my reason for agreeing with Wesley that we should leave this area. I did feel the threat of more primitives heading our way—and not the normal ones, as Tim was calling them.

Yet I also sensed dread.

Fear.

Call it a sense of anxiousness of not knowing what would happen when we left this place, and being uncertain as to where we would go that was the root cause of it. Another was the look in Wesley's eye when he asked for the frequency and call location of Bob Atkins and instructed me to gather our things together in preparation of our departure. For the first time since coming together, Wesley was withholding something from me. He had come up with a plan and he wasn't telling me. For some reason that burned me. While I could understand the nature of our predicament—we surely didn't have the time for him to tell me his plan—I still felt I should be included for my own peace of mind.

Because not knowing made it more difficult for me to decide what to do, what I felt was best for my family and myself.

So I lay awake and worried. My arm throbbed in pain. I worried if it was infected, if it would heal properly. At some point tomorrow Tracy was going to have to stitch the wound up properly; I'd packed the first aid kit and enough medication in one of the canvas bags I'd placed in the garage. For now medical treatment would have to wait.

Eventually sleep overcame me. And with it came the nightmares.

In the first one I was still asleep and was jostled awake by Tracy, who was screaming. "Emily! Oh God, it's got Emily!"

I sprang awake to the sight of Emily flying over the bed. Her cute four-year old face was transformed into a grinning, demonic visage. Wings sprouted from her shoulder blades. Her skin had turned dark and leathery. Her eyes rolled up to show the whites and she opened her mouth. Hanbi's voice issued from it. "Worship me, Daddy! Worship me!"

The second one was even worse. In that one, Heather caught Emily and leaped onto her, tearing her from Tracy's grasp. She grabbed Emily's head and battered it against the wall, all the while screaming, "Take that you half-breed mongoloid brat!" She bashed Emily's head against the wall over and over while Tracy, who was clearly possessed by the demonic Hanbi, sat on the opposite corner of the bed and watched, laughing.

I came awake with a yell from both dreams, flailing my arms around in an attempt to fight the evil Hanbi off me, who I felt was hovering over me, waiting to take control of me.

Both times I came awake, Emily and Tracy slept soundly.

I lay back down next to Tracy and cradled her in my arms. I'd never felt so helpless in my life.

For the first time since this whole terrible ordeal happened I cried myself to sleep.

Twenty Four

It took two days to reach our destination just outside of Lawrence, Kansas.

An hour before dawn, on the day we started out, Martin shook me out of sleep. "It's time," he said, retreating into the shadows. I sprang out of bed and proceeded to wake up Tracy.

An hour later we were pulling out of the compound in the Hummer. I had mixed feelings of apprehension and regret as we pulled away. Prior to the events of the last two days, I'd been entertaining thoughts of spending my remaining years here, of seeing Emily grow into a woman, of Tracy and I living our sunset years in that Montana luxury cabin, in a world that had moved on.

It was like leaving our home in Pasadena, in a way.

I drove. Wesley sat up front with me while Tracy, Emily, and Martin sat in the backseat. Martin slept for three hours while Wesley maintained a silent and caffeine-fueled watch from the shotgun seat, rifle cradled in his lap.

By the time the morning sun was burning bright in the sky we'd made fifty miles and Wesley had given me the lowdown of his conversation with Bob Atkins and several key government figures he'd talked to.

It came as no surprise that the US government was still functioning, albeit in a very stripped-down manner. Wesley explained to me that decades ago, in preparation for a possible all-out nuclear attack on the US, the government had built a labyrinthine system of underground bunkers for key government officials, that were fully equipped with state-of-the-art generators that would power the country's missile defense and communications system. When civilization fell, certain engagements took place. People assumed certain roles and duties. Chain of command was shifted, re-shifted, and put forth. Proper defensive and offensive measures were initiated. And a week after the dust settled, those few who were left remained sequestered in their hidden underground bunkers, secretly monitoring everything going on above via hidden cameras and spy satellites (thanks to a largely still functioning monitoring system) and quietly planning and debating the next move.

It came as no surprise that the Executive Branch and every member of the House and Senate, with the exception of Bob Atkins, was dead. That made Bob Atkins the de facto President of the United States in accordance with the US Constitution. In addition to Bob Atkins, holed up underneath the DC area were surviving members of the FBI, the CIA, and the Pentagon. Wesley said he was surprised to hear that his former CO from his earliest days in the military, Colonel Henderson, was now in command of all branches of the military. "The resources are spread very thin," Wesley said. He leaned against the door and I could see the fatigue in his eyes, but he was very animated, very much awake. "The total population of the US is probably what it was shortly before the Revolutionary War and spread out in a much greater range. But we're in command. And those in government that survived have been quietly making preparations and making contacts with those on duty around the country. This virus wiped out a lot of people, David. A lot of guys on various bases didn't make it. We saw that back at Edwards. But those who did make it kept hold of their posts and have managed to remain there. Others have been dispatched to secure locations."

"What about overseas?" I asked. Tracy listened quietly in the backseat. Emily was still asleep, her head resting on Tracy's shoulder.

"Communications have been established with England, Germany, France, Sweden, Russia, Japan, and Australia. They're reporting massive casualties. All of them except for Sweden suffered massive casualties of their government. In fact, Sweden's prime minister went so far as to say that what happened was America's fault and that we should be held accountable. Atkins was quick to clamp down on that bullshit. I don't think he had any idea of what happened in the weeks that preceded the outbreak, but I'm sure he has his theories."

"So what's going to happen?" Tracy asked.

Wesley was silent for a moment. We'd seen no huge gatherings of primitives so far on the drive south, just a few scattered here and there. Those we did see immediately ran away. "There's a facility outside of Lawrence, Kansas. It's a nuclear missile silo. Henderson brought up my credentials in the system when I verified my identity and dispatched me there. I didn't tell him about you guys, and he has no knowledge I'm being accompanied by civilians. If he knew, he would have ordered me to leave you back at that cabin."

I felt my body stiffen at the implications. "Thank you," I managed to say.

Wesley acknowledged my thanks. "It's quite possible we'll run into trouble at Lawrence. I'm to meet with two members of the 41st Division at the silo. I'm sure Henderson has briefed them. In addition to myself, a hundred other survivors with my background have been dispatched to other missile silos around the country. Twenty of them didn't make it. Primitives probably got them. Once I arrive, I'm to make an inspection and report back to Henderson. Then, I'm to await his signal."

"Signal for what?" Dumb question, because I knew what the order was going to be, but I had to hear it from Wesley's lips.

"On Henderson's signal I'm to launch a nuclear missile at Kansas City." Wesley's voice and features were grim. "Ten other facilities are to launch at various other locations in North and South America. Likewise, England is to launch a missile into Jordan, and Germany is to hit Pakistan and India."

"Why?" Tracy asked from the backseat. "Hasn't there been enough bloodshed already?"

"It's the only way to eliminate as many primitives as possible in order to stop Hanbi's influence," Wesley said.

I let the implications sink in. "So Atkins believes...he knows..."

"We all know, David." Wesley swung a gaze at me. "Even the most atheistic among us is facing the reality of what's happening. Atkins himself told me that one of the Pentagon members, a staunch atheist, was the first to make the recommendation after numerous conferences with people around the country and the world. Professor Campbell has been instrumental in providing a lot of archeological and historical background as well. We heard enough of what she had to say last night."

There was no use in arguing the point. I knew he was telling the truth. Believed it in my heart, in my mind. Unlike creationists who would not accept the science of tectonic plate theory forming continents, or the science of carbon dating because it flew in the face of the Genesis story of God creating the world in six days, I had to admit that, based on the evidence, and from what I'd witnessed, Hanbi was not only very real, he had to be destroyed.

For once it seemed like reason was beginning to prevail among mankind.

"This is bad," I said, the implications running through me.

"No shit, it's bad," Tracy said. She drew her legs up, hugging her knees. Tears were streaming down her face. "Who knows how many innocent people might be caught up in this."

"For the past week the military has been sending a signal through as many radio channels," Wesley said. "They're warning those who are still normal and are able-bodied to leave various cities immediately. According to the existing intelligence, the message is getting through, and those lucky enough to have lived through the initial primitive onslaught are doing everything they can to get out. We're continuing the message, though, and I think it's safe to say that within a week—which is the deadline they've been given—the cities in question will be largely devoid of normal people."

"That's when we'll strike," I said.

"Yes," Wesley confirmed. "That's when we'll strike."

Once again, I thought of the implications. Every image from every post-apocalyptic novel or film I'd ever read or watched that took place during and after a nuclear holocaust came to mind. Radiation sickness. Nuclear winter.

Was this going to be worth it?

I voiced this concern to Wesley.

"It's a new era now," Wesley said after a pause. "A new world. For the future of civilization, we must take extreme measures to ensure the safety of those who have survived to pave the way for future generations. I'm hoping this first wave of strikes will be enough to wipe out enough primitives that it will sufficiently weaken or eliminate Hanbi's hold."

"And if not?" Tracy asked.

Wesley didn't have an answer for that.

* * *

We camped out that night at a rest stop off Interstate 25 in Wyoming. Martin kept watch, being pretty much officially on graveyard shift for watch duty. Wesley gave him a debriefing when he awoke that afternoon, and he spent the afternoon in silence as Wesley slept.

The few primitives we saw on our way to that first stop for the night were quickly dealt with. We didn't even bother shooting at those who were far away—it was best to save the ammunition for those we knew were sure kills.

Meals consisted of canned goods heated over a fire Martin got going at the deserted campsite. It was then that Tracy got a better look at the bite mark on my arm. It had bled off and on throughout the day and throbbed with pain consistently, and she concurred with Wesley's statement from last night. "This has to be stitched up." Then, with the help of some Vicodin that was pilfered from the medicine cabinet in the cabin before we left, and a sterilized needle and thread, Tracy patched me up. The pain was ferocious the first time needle penetrated skin, but lessened as my endorphins kicked in, providing a natural pain blocker as the impromptu surgery continued. By the time she was halfway through, that and the combination of the Vicodin had me good and stoned.

As we sat around the campfire that evening, Wesley retreated to the Hummer and talked with somebody on the radio. I had the sense that what he was saying was secret, and again I felt resentful. My paranoid mind kept wondering what he was keeping from us.

The following morning I felt hot and feverish. Tracy redressed my wound. "You need some penicillin." She said. She dipped into the first aid kit, rummaged around and pulled a bottle out. "Here." I gulped two capsules down, ignoring the frightened look on her face. I didn't want to think about infection now. I had to get through this, had to get my family to safety.

After siphoning gas from an abandoned vehicle an hour into our drive (something we'd learned from Heather, obviously), we crossed into Colorado and continued south. Deciding to bypass Fort Collins and take secondary roads heading east, we left the main highway and headed down into the plains. We passed little evidence of primitives on the way. There were some abandoned vehicles along the side of the road—some stalled or crashed in the middle of the highway, or on the grassy center divide—but we navigated around those occasional roadblocks easily. By the end of the day we were in Kansas. We'd reach the outskirts of Lawrence that night if we continued at the pace we were going.

By this time Wesley was driving and Tracy was riding shotgun with him, tending guard duty. I was lying in the backseat, feeling woozy and sick. The few times I touched my arm it felt swollen and hot. When Tracy changed my dressing that afternoon the infection had spread, swelling my upper arm, the wound itself oozing yellow and green pus. I took more penicillin, trying to keep a stiff upper lip.

Martin assisted with navigating, and between him and Tracy they guided Wesley to the missile silo. I drifted to sleep, and when I woke up it was night and we were parked outside a chain-linked fence. Beyond the fence lay a nondescript building.

Wesley was speaking into a microphone that was set up near a gate. There was a camera pointed at us. I only caught a snatch of what was being said as I wavered in and out of consciousness. "...been with them since the Havoc Virus struck...infection...needs medical attention...a child of four years of age..." I heard Wesley identify us by name. Heard somebody on the other end say that they were told not to allow civilians into the premises. Heard a female voice in the background—not Tracy's—say she would assume responsibility. There was a brief argument and then the unseen female won. The gate opened and Wesley drove through.

The last thing I remembered was being carried out of the back seat of the Hummer, with Tracy supporting my right side, Martin supporting my left. I remember seeing Wesley talk to two soldiers, both young, a male and female. I remember him gesturing at us, remember him clearly saying, "...these people have put their asses on the line. They're fucking heroes, so as your commanding officer I am ordering you to give them sanctuary in this facility!"

And as I passed them I clearly heard the female soldier say, "Don't worry Colonel Smitts, they'll be safe."

And then, I blacked out again.

This time, I didn't come out of it for another week.

Twenty Five

That part of our story is over. And if you're reading these pages, you'll know it's not really over. We're still facing the uncertainty, just as you are.

Suffice it to say, this is the new dawn, a new era. Civilization was not wiped out in a cataclysmic nuclear attack, or a meteor, or the shifting of the earth's alignment with the sun, causing massive natural strife. Civilization ended three years before the Mayans predicted it would, too.

Sometimes I wonder if the Mayans knew of Hanbi.

I wonder if they knew this would eventually happen.

* * *

The first thing I saw when I came awake the first time was Emily.

She was sitting beside me on a narrow cot. The room was dark, but there was a nightlight plugged into an electrical outlet. Emily was sitting calmly by my side, looking down at me, as if expecting me to wake up any minute.

I smiled when I saw her. "Emily..."

She smiled back. "Daddy!"

"Where's your mother?"

"In the bunker," she said. I didn't know what she meant by that term. I was confused. For the first time I noticed something taped to my left arm and looked at it. An IV. I also noticed that I was wearing a white hospital gown.

"Where are we?"

"We're beneath the earth, Daddy!" Emily said.

"Get...your mother..." I said, my mind swimming with hazy images.

Emily nodded and scampered off the bed. She hesitated and for a minute she looked sad, like she was about to burst out crying at any minute. As quickly as it came, a sudden strength seemed to come over her and she took my hand in both her little ones. "I love you, Daddy."

"I love you too, pumpkin."

"I'll always be proud of you."

"I'll always be proud of you, too."

"I'm gonna go get Mommy."

"Okay."

She exited the room and unconsciousness claimed me again.

* * *

When I came back to consciousness, Tracy was with me. Something about her features bothered me. I recognized that look immediately. She was hiding something. Something bad had happened and she was trying to hide her emotions.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

Tracy shook her head. Her lips quivered ever so slightly. The first sign of cracking under the strain.

"How long have I been out?"

"A week."

I let this sink in. I no longer felt sick, no longer felt hot and feverish. I felt pretty good. Tired, but pretty good.

So what was wrong?

"What happened?"

Tracy ignored my question. "How do you feel?" She felt my forehead.

"I'm fine."

She examined me, looked at my bandaged arm, and I could tell there was something she wasn't telling me. She spilled the beans midway through her examination. "The missiles were launched yesterday," she said, her voice deadpan. "We're safe. Wesley and...some of the others we've been in communication with say that the weather patterns for the next few days should keep the fallout away from us." A heavy sigh. "Home is going to be...uninhabitable for awhile." She started crying silently.

I immediately knew what she was getting at. Home. Pasadena, California. Los Angeles itself had probably been a target, with its heavy population. It made sense when you considered a majority of the population in Southern California had been reduced to their most primitive state. If Tracy was holding on to any hope of ever returning to home, even if those hopes were mere wish fulfillment, they were now shattered. Southern California was probably going to remain uninhabitable for the remainder of our lifetime.

"What about Hanbi?" I asked.

Tracy sighed, wiped tears from her cheeks. "It's still...too early to tell if the launch has had an effect. Emily doesn't have a read yet."

"What do you mean?"

Tracy looked at me. "Emily says Hanbi is still out there and he's angry. He's...flying around, crashing into things. She says he's furious. Says...he's trying to get into anybody he can and..."

"How many primitives were killed?" I persisted. "Is there any idea? Even an estimate?"

"Millions." Tracy sat down at the right side of my bed. She took my hand. "New York, Philadelphia, DC, Atlanta, Chicago, Kansas City, Los Angeles...millions...probably plenty of people like us, too. People who were unable to escape the cities in time..."

I felt my heart lurch at the mention of Chicago. "Tim?"

"Got out a day after we arrived. He's actually here with a couple other people. One of them's a doctor. I should get her now. She'll want to know you're awake." Tracy stood up and looked down at me, once again that look coming over her face, that look that told me she was worried about something and was afraid to tell me.

Another spike drove through my heart. "Is something wrong with Emily?"

Tracy shook her head and mustered a smile. "No. Emily's fine. She's...an insightful little girl. You know that, don't you?"

I did. And now the knowledge of Emily's uncanny gift for precognition swept over me, creating a sense of dread. What was Emily telling them? What did she see?

Did I even want to know?

"Lie down and rest," Tracy said, smoothing my hair back from my brow. "I'll go get Dr. Bush."

I nodded and Tracy left the room.

* * *

Dr. Kathryn Bush was about my age and had once been a Family Practitioner in the greater Chicago area. As she examined me she told me she'd performed minor surgery on my arm the afternoon she arrived. "I'm not going to lie to you, Mr. Spires," she said, putting her stethoscope down after concluding her exam. "You have a serious blood infection. We almost lost you. You're not out of the woods yet, but the fact that you regained consciousness is a very good sign."

"Am I going to lose my arm?" I asked.

"I hope not." She checked the dressing, which I noticed for the first time was more complete and enveloped my entire upper arm. A smaller dressing also covered the wound on my right shoulder. "You've suffered considerable tissue damage and muscle loss to your arm. Thanks to Tracy's quick action, gangrene never set in. But human bites are nasty, as I'm sure you've heard. And the fact that a primitive bit you...well, who knows what kind of bacteria they carry."

As the days progressed and I lay in bed recuperating, I got updates from everybody. Wesley. Martin. Tracy and Emily were at my side constantly. I met Tim, finally, and liked him. I took him to be ten years younger than I, slight of build and scholarly in appearance, like he could have been a research geek at some university in a past life. It was Tim who told me that it appeared the nuclear strikes were having an effect. "Hanbi's ability to possess his followers and reanimate the dead seems to be gone," he said. "One of our resources reported that a cult they've been monitoring survived the blast due to their far proximity to the nearest strike. They've been performing rituals almost non-stop and Hanbi had visited them constantly before, but he's been absent since the blasts. Apparently they appear quite upset at this. He said they've been very agitated."

Martin told me the military was being reassembled from a wide range of volunteers from all over the country. Rag-tag teams of militias were already on their own frontal assaults against the primitives around the country, both in large cities and in outlying rural areas. And Wesley told me that the remaining vestiges of the US government had called an emergency session to order, the first since the vast outbreak of the Havoc Virus. "We still have martial law," Wesley told me three days after I regained consciousness. Once again I had a fever, and Dr. Bush had wanted to give me a sedative but I'd insisted on talking to Wesley before I succumbed to Morpheus. "And things are still pretty goddamn crazy out there. But the more primitives we kill, the weaker Hanbi is becoming. The primitives aren't as strong or organized. It's almost like in the beginning stages of the virus when they were running around like those goddamned monkeys. It's like they're lost and confused."

"They no longer have Hanbi to guide them," I said.

"Exactly." He nodded. Smiled. "You're gonna get better, my friend. You've got a hell of a woman who loves you, and your little girl, Emily..." His voice broke off for a moment and he looked reflective. Was he thinking of his own lost family? His son, who was probably dead? He had to be. "...she's a remarkable little girl. She's going to be a very important person in the future. You should be proud of her."

"I am," I said.

"Hang in there," Wesley said. "Get some rest. Get better."

"I will."

Wesley looked at me for a moment, his features reflective, a tinge of sadness in them, and then he left the room.

I thought about that sadness and wondered if he knew something. I wondered if I wasn't being told everything. What was wrong?

I didn't worry about it that much. Sleep overcame me quickly.

* * *

The next few times I was awake I only remember snatches of consciousness. It was the infection.

It had spread.

I remember coming awake the first time to see Tracy and Emily standing by me. Tracy was crying. Emily wasn't crying, but she looked sad. She noticed the change in my eyes as I regained clarity briefly and told me she loved me. Then I went under again.

Over the next few days, whenever I came out of it briefly, I saw similar scenes. Dr. Bush was present at times, along with Martin and Wesley, sometimes Tim. After awhile their voices swirled together, creating a kaleidoscope of blurred images and voices.

"...getting worse..."

"...has to be something you can..."

"...settled in him..."

"...needs proper medical attention..."

"...Daddy..."

My eyes focused on Emily, who was hovering over me, her little face worried and sad. "Daddy, I'll always be with you."

I tried to say something and went under again.

* * *

Dr. Bush told me a day after I came back from that last scare that my blood infection had spread into my lymph nodes. She'd sent Sgt. Lynn Ryder and Scott Owen into Lawrence to raid a hospital for more equipment and drugs. "I've instructed them to bring me everything in the pharmacy," she said. Tracy and Emily were at my bedside. For the first time, Dr. Bush looked worried, but she hid it well. "Once they get back I'll find the right antibiotics we need and we can start administering them so you can begin fighting this thing."

For the first time I was afraid to ask her if I would be all right. I didn't want to hear what she'd have to say.

Especially in front of Emily and Tracy.

Besides, I had a feeling they already knew.

Then again...perhaps the constant worried expressions...their looks of sadness, of grief, was simply a sign of the stress and the pain of living through everything we've been through.

Besides, I felt better.

Emily certainly warmed up to me as I talked to my family. Even Tracy seemed to come out of her funk. They sat on the side of my bed and told me the latest news: that a small army of militias and surviving members of the 18th Brigade near Forth Worth had gone into Dallas and exterminated thousands of primitives using conventional weaponry: high powered rifles, machine guns, tanks, flame throwers. Leaflets and public access messages had been broadcast over loudspeakers warning those that were not affected by the Havoc Virus to evacuate immediately. Those who were left had done so. The army rescued a handful of people as they moved in.

The caravan of psychos we'd heard about from Stuart, who had been raping and pillaging their way west finally met their match courtesy of the National Guard near Jonesboro, Arkansas. The ensuing firefight left most of them dead, with only three Guardsmen suffering fatalities. The surviving psychos were rounded up and formally arrested.

It felt good to hear that. Arrested. It meant our own guys were following the rule of the land. The line of legal and social code that had been laid down by those who originally formed our system of government. I could only hope that people in other countries were doing the same, that elsewhere things hadn't slipped into even deeper anarchy.

It was at this time when I ffinally decided to resume the work I had begun so long ago, in that abandoned Mexican restaurant in Grass Valley, California: the documentation of our ordeal.

I brought this up to Tracy a few nights later, during dinner. Lynn and Scott had returned from Lawrence and Dr. Bush had administered the first of several antibiotics to me via IV drip shortly after. The drugs made me woozy occasionally, but so far so good. My appetite was coming back, and Dr. Bush said that was a good sign. Tracy helped me walk across the room to use the bathroom for the first time—another good sign. There was still that underlying sense of tension everybody had, as if they felt I wasn't entirely out of the woods yet, but I could live with that. I won't feel one hundred percent better until I'm running around and playing with my daughter, but for now I'm okay. Which is why I felt, as I explained to Tracy, I should continue this memoir now.

Tracy thought about it for a moment. "Your laptop is in our room," she said. "I can bring it down, give you an hour a day to start."

"An hour a day would be great," I said.

Tracy smiled. It was the first time I'd seen her smile since...well, since this whole thing started. Maybe that was a sign things were getting better. "I guess if you feel good enough to write, maybe you are out of the woods."

"Of course I am," I said.

Emily came into the room, running excitedly. "Daddy! Daddy!"

"Hey! Come here, you!" I held my right arm out; my left was still bandaged up and somewhat immobile.

Emily leaped onto the bed and carefully crawled over to me so I could hug her. "I love you, Daddy!"

"I love you, too." I hugged her, kissed the top of her head. I looked at Tracy. "And I love you too, baby."

Tracy's smile widened. "That goes double for me, David."

I felt good. I felt happy. And for the first time since this all began, I felt safe.

I felt we might have some sense of a future.

I felt we might have a chance of surviving this. Of building something new together. Of contributing to the rebuilding of society into something better than what was destroyed.

Most of all, and more important to me, I had my life and my family.

And I was determined to not let them go. I'd made those vows years ago, when Tracy and I first got together, back when Eric was a baby, before Emily was even born.

I'd kept those vows. Us being here, in this fortress beneath the ground, was proof.

I was going to hold on to them.

Or die trying.

AFTERWORD

What you've just read is my father's version of what happened to our little corner of the world thirty years ago, when human civilization almost ended.

As I write this, the world has yet to return to the state it was in when the Havoc Virus was unleashed. Perhaps it never will. Much of my education during my formative years was watching hours of old video footage of that former world. Movies, TV shows, home movies rescued from the many legions of the dead who'd died leaving their belongings for archeologists to recover as a way of preservation and educating those—like myself—who came of age after the near fall of civilization.

Shortly after my father finished this narrative, he succumbed to the blood poisoning that was ravaging his system. From what I remember he went very peacefully, in his sleep, surrounded by those who loved him in his last days—my mother and I, Wesley Smitts, and Martin Hernandez. Dr. Bush did all she could to save him, enlisting the help of a hematologist she met via radio communication (who was broadcasting from Switzerland), but ultimately failed. Daddy's death affected her in a way I didn't understand as a child.

Martin helped my mother raise me, and he proved to be a wonderful surrogate father. Nobody could replace the real father I'd lost, but Martin came very close. He lived with my mother (platonically, of course; Martin never took on another life partner after losing Jerry Horn as described in my father's narrative) until I turned eighteen and went to the University of Colorado in Denver, which was one of the ten universities that were resurrected in the decade following the near crash. By then, of course, Mom and Martin were involved in key positions in the rebuilding of the world, a process that is still ongoing and will likely continue until I am well into my sunset years. Regardless, Daddy's passion for life and his determination to live, his single-minded goal of staying alive and preserving our lives was a huge influence on them, one that shapes the decisions they make in their respective roles in our current government. Likewise, it has influenced my own research and the wisdom I impart on my students.

As for myself...I foretold my father's passing the day we arrived at the missile silo. I saw it the moment I saw that he was injured, had been bitten by the primitive. I saw the infection spread through his body, saw visions of his illness and eventual death.

I saw a black cloud envelop my father.

I knew, even then, that the black cloud represented death.

I was four years old, would turn five a month later, and as most toddlers are wont to do, I told my mother. She didn't take the news well. I didn't either, to tell you the truth. But from what I remember, it enabled me to prepare emotionally for my father's death. I think it helped my mother, too. Getting confirmation from Dr. Bush that Daddy's illness would probably prove fatal helped us deal with it mentally, emotionally. When I read those last few pages of my father's account, I can't help but feel both sad and proud that he had an idea, an inkling that he was aware that I knew something bad was around the corner, something so horrible that we were afraid to tell him. I think maybe his gift of precognition was a little stronger than normal as well. I'd like to think so, that I'd inherited this gift from him. My mother says that my father always read people well, and that he'd probably sensed I predicted the end for him, but was too proud to ask any of us. He'd accepted it, found the strength somehow to fight and, when he was well enough, went to work at writing down this narrative.

Therefore, it gives me extreme pleasure to be able to write the Afterword to this memoir, the first book publication that depicts a personal view of the Havoc Virus and its aftermath. We're lucky to have this book. We're lucky to have the reemergence of the book publishing industry, of television and motion pictures, of the banking system, of the construction industry, and much more. All are relatively young, rebuilding from the ashes of our past world, but they're flourishing and growing at incredible speed. I've written and spoken before that the state of commerce and business in the US—if not most of the former First World and some former Second and Third World countries—is like what they were in the early Victorian Age. Old systems have been brought back, refined drastically, or eliminated altogether. Once again we have a strong sense of duty. Of honor. Of courage. We have vision. It is those traits that are forging society and moving us ever forward with new ideas and a determination to not repeat the mistakes of those who came before us. If anything has taught mankind, it is that last admonition. We are all well aware of the many mistakes of the previous world. We are determined not to repeat them.

And that's why this book and others that will come after it will be so important for future generations. This is what drives me in my current work, to not only promote this notion, but also to make sure my father's words do not die in vain. What he has recounted in these pages is our grim struggle for survival. This struggle played itself out with families all across the world, and it illustrates that even at our most primal, our most base instincts, we are still human with all of our flaws, rough edges, and brains and power for social engineering and invention. We can make a difference, as a collective voice or as a lone individual. But we have to strive for that greatness. We have to fight for it. Against all odds.

My father was a fighter. He made some tough choices. The toughest was getting us out of Pasadena, California in the days following the Havoc outbreak and getting through to my mother that we had to leave my brother, Eric, behind. I can't even begin to imagine the pain those decisions put him through. But it was his choices, his thinking process, which defined my father and influenced me in my own work.

At the end of my father's narrative he recounts his last days in the silo's infirmary. There's a brief scene where my four-year old self is sitting solemnly on his bed. I tell him I love him, and that he will always be with me.

And that is so true. My father may have died two months later, shortly after finishing his narrative, but he never left me. I see him constantly. He talks to me. I talk to him.

He tells me he's proud of me.

And I'm very proud of him.

Thank you, Daddy. For your courage. Your bravery. Your quick thinking. Your willingness to do whatever it took to save your clan—because without you, we wouldn't be where we are today. Your tenacity in the face of huge adversity saved the lives of my mother, who went on to become a US Senator, and Martin Hernandez, who became a Chief Cabinet member in the reformation of our government. It also led to Wesley Smitts being a modern day war hero. During the year after your death, Wesley led a team of soldiers into a nuclear ravaged New York City and cleaned out the last vestiges of primitives and was killed in action. It was that battle that finally tipped the scales in our favor, banishing Hanbi forever into oblivion.

Never to be seen or heard from again.

I wish you were really here with me to see all of this...but I know you're here in spirit. I feel your energy every day.

I will never lose it. I will never lose you.

I love you, Daddy. I always will.

Emily Spires, Ph.D.

Professor of Anthropology and Human History,

University of Colorado, Denver.

November 15, 2037

About The Author

J. F. Gonzalez is the author of over a dozen novels of horror and dark suspense including Hero (with Wrath James White), Bully, The Beloved, Clickers (with Mark Williams) and Clickers II: The Next Wave (with Brian Keene). His short fiction appears regularly in various magazines and anthologies and is most recently collected in When the Darkness Falls, and The Summoning and Other Eldritch Tales. His work is occasionally optioned for film, but nothing ever gets made. He's also a screenwriter and a web designer. He lives with his family in Pennsylvania. He is currently at work on his next novel.