Pat turned away, and happened to glance at another kenneled dog. It was a black dachshund. But the length of its body was impossible to fathom. The canine was at least six feet long. It looked like an attraction in a carnival freak show.

The dachshund was glaring at her, too, dark eyes seething with menace.

Heart pounding, Pat hurried to the restroom. Along the way, she saw a calico cat with eight legs. A German Shepard with three tails. A Yorkshire terrier with a pair of large, leathery wings protruding from its back.

By the time she reached the restroom, she was hyperventilating. She locked herself in a toilet stall, flipped down the lid on the commode, sat, and hugged herself.

What’s the matter with me? I’ve never, ever been prone to anything like this--wild, vivid hallucinations.

They looked so real. It was impossible to simply tell herself that she was imagining things and prevent herself from reacting.

But she could not stay there at the shelter. She needed to get home, perhaps go to bed and let this spell pass.

Cold perspiration had beaded on her forehead. She tore a handful of toilet tissue from the nearby dispenser, used it to blot her skin.

The tissue came away soaked with bright red blood.

Pat stared at the blood-soaked paper, disbelieving. She shot to her feet, slammed out of the stall, rushed to the bank of mirrors above the sinks.

Her entire forehead oozed blood, as if the flesh had been ripped away. It streamed down her temples and leaked into her eyes.

This cannot be happening, it cannot be happening, it can’t . . .

She twisted on the water. The mere effort caused her fingers to rupture and bleed, as if her skin were as thin and delicate as crepe paper. Blood poured into the sink, mingled with the water jetting from the faucet.

Weak-kneed, she backed out of the restroom. As she shuffled, blood dripped from her hands and face and spattered on the tile floor.

She didn’t know whether the blood was genuine, or not. But she was feeling faint.

She nudged open the door with her shoulder, staggered out of the washroom. Blackness engulfed the entire facility, every light extinguished. Beyond the windows, darkness reigned, as if the entire city had plummeted into a blackout in the middle of the night.

It’s only mid-morning, good Lord.

In spite of the darkness, she heard movement throughout the shelter, as though every caged animal had been freed. Barking, screeching, snarling, growling.

Something large and furry brushed against her. Pat flinched away. Cold, sharp teeth snapped onto her right hand.

Screaming, Pat ran. She fled the building and raced into the night.

And ran directly into the path of a roaring truck.

41

Monica spent the morning in her home office, performing research on the Internet. Discovering the basis of her escalating health issues had taken on a new level of urgency.