At a hand signal from him, PFC Richardson and Dr. Hicks slipped out from among the trees. They’d been right across the road, but Gina hadn’t spotted them. Behind them came the much noisier and more hesitant figure of Kelly.

“We were just about to find ourselves a truck,” Mark said, “when you two came in. We’ve got to move, and now.”

Willoughby’s main street started a quarter of a mile down the road, and Gina couldn’t see the slightest problem, except for the same thing she’d noticed from above: The place was quiet, no traffic, nobody on the sidewalks.

“Are they okay?”

Nobody responded.

Richardson carried the bulky, gray form of a Metal Storm, and both he and Hicks had bead drums dangling from their carries. She counted six of the small drums, so not a lot of ammunition.

“Where are the other Storms?”

“You’re Gina, aren’t you?” Linda Hicks asked.

“I’m Gina.”

“He won’t answer questions now,” Linda said. “He’s using his senses. He’s quiet when he’s using his senses.”

The respect and loyalty in that voice were unmistakable, further evidence that Gina had been wrong about Mark.

She smelled a sour odor that reminded her of the abattoir on her granddad’s place in Maryland. Long, long ago, in another world.

“What’s that smell?” she asked.

Linda Hicks only glanced her way. Nobody replied. Mark moved steadily toward the town. She fell in behind him, with Linda and Kelly behind her. Richardson did rear guard.

“You have a knife,” Gina said to Mark. “That’s it? Shouldn’t you have another Storm?”

“I don’t need a Storm.”

“What are you saying? Of course you need a Storm.”

He didn’t answer.

The closer they came to the town, the more wrong it began to look. There was no movement at all, nothing. Gina’s memories went back to what had happened to her helicopter, the dreadful banging against the fuselage, the bizarre mechanical insects slashing and hammering to get in. At least she wasn’t seeing any of those things here.

They had reached the outskirts of Willoughby now. Of course she knew the place well, having flown these streets dozens of times. But there were things her satellite eyes could not see, such as the great smear of blood in the doorway of Ellendorf Antiques, and the human arm lying on the covered sidewalk in front of the Glade.

“What was done to this place?”

Mark did not even glance back. He was moving faster now, heading toward the motel.

“Mark?”

A hand came on her shoulder. Linda said, “Leave him be. Just let it happen.”