He halted. The rage was suddenly gone. It left him hollow, afraid, unsure of what to do next. Bart couldn’t be turning already . . . could he? His skin was pale, drained, almost like Evie’s. But the eyes told him no. They were barely open, just enough to show the dimming sparkle of life, and they spoke to Del. They told him the things that he didn’t want to know, that he was surrounded, that it would be suicide to try to help him and that it was already too late. And when the tears came anew Bart’s gaze stopped them, told him that there wasn’t time for that. That he had a job to do.

But I can’t leave you here, he wanted to say. I can’t leave you. Not like this.

The older boy’s gaze softened, and a solitary tear welled there in the corner. His eyes shifted toward his outstretched hand, which still groped limply for the backpack just beyond his reach. Del nodded. He understood. He picked up the pack, careful that the bottles didn’t rattle, and he hugged it to his chest. When he looked back at his brother, the eyes were closed. They didn’t reopen.

He backed up and slumped against the wall. He did not want to move again. He wanted only to curl into a ball and hide his head. He felt more alone than he’d ever been in his life, and yet—suddenly he didn’t. There was Bart’s voice inside his head, crystal clear, so real that he had to look at the body to be sure it hadn’t moved or spoken. Get moving, Cap, it said. Mom needs you. Get moving.

He pushed off from the wall and walked straight, putting one foot in front of the other, stopping only to retrieve his plastic teeth, until he was past Evie and his brother and he didn’t have to look at them again.

Watching the vampires dine was especially harrowing as he picked his way through the room. The manner of their feeding varied with each; some moaned passionately and stroked their victims like a lover, while others savaged the throats with animal glee and then lapped at the pooling blood or sipped from the ruptured artery like a water fountain. It made his stomach lurch. He fixed his eyes on the door and concentrated.

They’ll sense your fear, he told himself, or maybe it was Bart, reminding him. You can’t let them see that you’re afraid.

He stepped over two bodies. The one on its back, beneath a snorting young man, looked like a wide-eyed Mrs. Helton.

Can’t be afraid.