She runs down the sidewalk to the Park house. Lee Park keeps his boat in the front driveway, where it’s been sitting, immobile and unused, for the decade that Alana and Grace have lived here. Its trailer juts out into the sidewalk about a foot with a piece of rebar chained to the end, a short flagpole for a red ribbon now faded to pink. It’s supposed to make the street safer — so people will see it and avoid running into the trailer hitch — but it’s a sharp, rusting piece of steel sticking out on the sidewalk. For years, Alana has lived in fear of the day when Grace comes home from roller-skating or riding her scooter with a deep puncture wound, or missing an eye. Alana has never mentioned it to Lee, because these are things you’re supposed to put up with from your neighbors.

Now she’s glad it’s there. Cold iron. She pulls it free of the chain, snapping the links like they’re made of paper. She holds it in one hand like a spear, spins, and stops in the middle of the street.

Rocky can feel the sudden lack of movement. He starts scratching madly at her stomach. He knows they’re not out of danger yet. He whines as if to tell her, Move move move, predators right behind us, are you crazy?

Alana ignores him.

The pack comes for her. Their eyes glow.

The creature in the lead leaps for her throat, while the second is a half-pace behind, ready to take out her legs.

The pole spins in her hand, the ribbon fluttering in the air, and Alana stabs the creature in mid-leap. A fountain of hot blood pours from its chest and it dies without so much as a whimper. Almost simultaneously, she brings her heel down on the one charging at her legs, crushing its skull.

Just like riding a bike, she thinks.

Then she’s a little bit slow, and one of the creatures clamps its jaws on her arm and she’s reminded, as the pain lances through her and her vision goes white at the edges, that no, it’s not very much like anything else at all.

She stops thinking, and becomes nothing but speed and motion and intent, taking each of her enemies as they come.

She kills like she was born to it.

A moment later, she is panting and sweating, the large bite on her forearm oozing blood with every beat of her heart. But she is still standing, and the street in front of her is littered with four-legged corpses. Rocky quivers inside her sweatshirt.

The last of the creatures, the pack leader, stands alone now, looking at her with those weirdly glowing yellow eyes. It bares its needle teeth once more, but stays well out of range of her weapon.

“Come on,” she says, like she’s coaxing a reluctant pet through the doggie door.