Waylon sailed out of the blackness as though launched from a catapult, missing Thedford’s head by inches. The dog slammed into the refrigerator door beside Thedford, then slid to the floor in a flaccid heap. Its entire snout and lower jaw had been ripped away. The gaping hole that remained oozed a thick gray goop.

Thedford’s bladder betrayed him in a gush.

He looked back into the hallway and out of the blackness came a pair of eyes—gray, pupil-less orbs that appeared to float in midair. The floor creaked, and a figure emerged. It was Willard. Thedford watched his son’s sluglike tongue lick a dollop of Waylon’s brain from his chin.

Thedford squeezed the trigger with no hesitation. The rifle fired. The bullet hit its target with precision.

The smoking wound in Willard’s stomach did nothing to slow his progress. His lips parted in a vulpine grin and he continued his slow pursuit.

The Winchester fell from Thedford’s hands.

One of Willard’s teammates appeared behind Willard and fell into step at his heels.

Thedford screamed until his voice failed. Cornered now at the junction of the refrigerator and the counter, his feet shuffled backward on the blood-smeared linoleum.

Splintered wood cracked in the den, just off the kitchen. The front door tumbled into the room and another figure lumbered into the house on muddy cleats. Two more came in behind it. Through the living room window, Thedford saw more of them closing in across the rain-speckled yard.

The window above the kitchen sink exploded in a cascade of shattered glass. A pair of Spalding lineman gloves reached inside and clawed at the air.

Thedford rifled through the drawers on either side of him, flinging in all directions whatever he could get his hands on—silverware, keys, batteries, cassette tapes, spare bulbs, a cheese grater.

By the time the drawers were clear and his endurance spent, his attackers were upon him.

Both flanks of men entered the kitchen at the same time.

Willard was the first to take hold, yanking his father’s left arm from its socket with a single tug. Before Thedford could even register the pain, his son bit into the severed appendage with a snarl.

More clambering arms took hold. Thedford heard a wet squish and looked down to find an arm buried to the elbow in his abdomen. A clawing hand took hold of his spine and yanked. His body buckled to the floor, writhing wildly. Adolescent teeth, chock-full of cavity fillings and wire braces, tore into him from all sides.

The last thing Thedford Blunt heard was the sound of his own neck snapping between a set of hungry teenage jaws.

CHAPTER 39

NO!”

Savannah’s voice jolted Cole awake.

He felt her shoot upright beside him on the mattress.