Sandra got to Rory’s house on foot without encountering any more Arrivals. She swung open the white picket gate and ran up the stone path to the front door, glancing briefly at the open carport beside the house. She saw a couple of old lawn mowers, gardening tools, a rusted tricycle, and something much larger under a tarp that barely registered as she rang the bell.

Sandra could hear a dead bolt turning and a chain being slid from its mount before the door opened an inch. A thin woman in shorts and a red T-shirt peered out worriedly, as though she feared the cars had figured out how to pretend to be Jehovah’s Witnesses.

When she saw it was an actual person, she opened the door wider and said, “Yeah?”

“I’m Sandra Montrose,” she said. “Archie’s mom. He and Rory are friends. Is he here? Please tell me he’s—”

The door suddenly opened wider and Rory was standing there.

“Your boy’s not here,” Rory’s mom said.

Sandra looked at Rory. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Rory said.

“He was with you and Nick this morning, right?”

Rory nodded hesitantly.

“So where did you three go?” Sandra said, her voice rising. “Where’s Archie?”

“Okay, so, like, we did all go to the mall,” Rory said.

“And?”

“The cars started going crazy, and there were, like, hundreds of them, and they got into the mall, and they were running people down and—”

“God, no,” Sandra said. “But you all got out?”

Rory shrugged. “I did. I don’t know about them. We kinda got split up. I thought maybe they got out, too, so I came back here. I haven’t heard anything from the other guys.”

Sandra looked into the eyes of the boy’s mother, who shrugged. “I don’t know what to say,” she said.

Sandra looked away, and that was when she noticed, for the second time, the large item in the garage covered with the tarp.

“What is that?” she asked.

Rory’s mom had to step out of the house to see what Sandra was referring to. The boy came out behind her. It was Rory who answered her question.

“That’s my dad’s motorcycle.” He swelled briefly with pride. “It’s a Harley.”

Sandra asked, “There gas in it?”

The boy shrugged. “Probably. He was out on it before they made everyone just drive Arrivals.”

Sandra looked at his mother. “Key,” she said.

The woman stiffened. “I don’t think my husband would want—”

Sandra put her face within three inches of the woman’s. “I’m not asking,” she said.

Forty-Two

Joe Bridgeman wasn’t having much luck. Not that he expected to.