When he looked back through the windshield, a small abby stood twenty feet ahead of the grille, frozen in the headlights, teeth bared.

Ethan braced.

At contact, the bumper blasted the abby straight back thirty feet. He ran it over and dragged it for half a block, the Bronco jarring so violently he could barely keep his grip on the steering wheel.

The undercarriage finally spit it out.

Ethan raced north.

The rearview mirror showed a dark, empty street.

He breathed again.

Near the north end of town, Ethan turned west, headed several blocks toward Main until the headlights swiped across a line of people in the street, faces lit by a handful of torches.

He steered the Bronco over the curb.

Left the keys in the ignition so the lights would keep burning.

He went around to the back of the Bronco, lowered the tailgate, and grabbed one of the three loaded shotguns.

Kate was standing beside an open trapdoor behind a bench, its underside constructed of one-by-four planks and rusted hinges, the top camouflaged with dirt and grass. She and another man were lowering people, one by one, underground.

Their eyes met as he approached.

He shoved a shotgun into her hands and looked back at the crowd—still twenty-five or thirty left to go.

“They need to be underground five minutes ago,” Ethan said.

“Going as fast as we can.”

“Where are Ben and Theresa?”

“Already down below.”

“The abbies are here, Kate.”

He saw the question in her eyes before she asked, “Where’s Brad?”

“They got him, and I’m telling you, we have a couple minutes tops and then it’s all over.”

The crowd was moving with the efficiency of an evacuation—orderly, no one talking, a hushed intensity in the air.

Screams—human and inhuman—were erupting across the town with greater frequency.

Ethan turned to the crowd.

He said, “I have a carful of weapons. If you ever owned firearms in your prior life, if you have any experience or comfort level whatsoever, come with me.”

Ten people stepped out of line and followed Ethan over to the back of the Bronco.

Hecter Gaither, the town pianist, stood among them. He was tall and lanky, salt-and-pepper hair with whitewashed wings. Fragile, almost regal features. For the fête, he’d dressed up like a murderous fairy.

Ethan asked, “What’d you shoot in your past life, Hecter?”

“I used to go duck hunting with my father every Christmas morning.”

Ethan handed him a Mossberg.

“I loaded this up with twelve-gauge slugs. It’s going to kick a bit more than the bird-shot rounds you’re used to.”

Hecter held it by the stock—so strange to see those soft, dexterous hands clutching a tactical shotgun.