Fresh nausea washed through her. She ran her hands over the dewed grass, desperately trying to clean them. There was too much. It was on her jeans, her jacket, the leash, and it soaked through her socks. There was not much she could do to escape it. Not until dawn.

It might not actually be blood, she tried to tell herself. It could be wine. She would be able to tell the difference if she had the courage to taste it, but nothing in heaven or on earth could compel her to put the crimson liquid near her mouth.

She dried her hands as much as possible on her jacket, then scrambled to her feet again. She’d lost sight of Marsh. She wasn’t alone, though. Thin, dirt-clad figures were visible in the distance, no more than dull-gray blurs through the mist. Their heavy footsteps echoed, inexorably growing closer.

What will they do if they catch me?

Margot thought of the girl, Abigail, that Ray had mentioned. Found drowned in a shallow creek, her clothes torn and scratch marks coating her body. Would the dead hold Margot’s head into the ditch, pushing it under until her lungs were filled with viscous liquid and churned dirt?

She didn’t want to find out. Her legs shook and the dampened leash hung like a noose from her hand as she stumbled toward the trees.

Margot pressed through the scratching branches, eyes straining, heart thundering. She dried the phone’s front on her jacket multiple times, but the light seemed to have been imbued with a red tint. A soft huffing noise came from ahead. Marsh. She quickened her pace, barely reacting as a dead branch scored the back of her hand.

She stepped into a gap between two patches of trees. Saplings grew there, quivering in the cold air, fighting for survival as the taller trees dwarfed them.

Marsh was there, facing away, his head lifted to look at something Margot couldn’t see. Her heart almost burst from relief. She crouched, arm extended to catch his collar, to pull him back around, then hesitated.

Something didn’t feel right. The hairs across Margot’s arms rose, the skin prickling. Marsh still wouldn’t face her. His tail no longer swayed but hung low. His fur didn’t seem right.

“Marsh?” she whispered, and he finally responded, turning to look back at her.

His eyes were empty, dark pits, squirming and alive with maggots.

37

The dog shuffled toward Margot. His fur was darkened and clumping, as though he’d been dragged through mud. His jaw hung open. The tongue was black. The gums pocked with holes. The rank stench of death rolled off him, wet and heavy and like an unbearable knife through Margot’s heart. He blinked. Maggots spilled from the hollow eyeholes, tumbling over his muzzle and writhing on the ground.