The questions were inescapable—what if Ethan hadn’t made this revelation to the town? What if he’d let them kill Kate and Harold, go on with things the way they’d always been? These people would certainly not be dying right now.

Ethan carefully lowered the trapdoor and descended.

Maggie was hysterical below him, Hecter trying to comfort her.

Ethan reached the bottom, traded back the torch for the gun, and said, “Let’s go.”

They moved quickly up the tunnel, the rest of their group out of sight.

“What was happening up there?” Maggie asked.

Ethan said, “One of the other groups didn’t make it underground in time.”

Hecter said, “We have to help them.”

“There is no helping them.”

“What does that mean?” Maggie asked.

Ethan glimpsed a shimmer of torchlight in the distance and quickened his pace.

He said, “We need to focus on getting our people to safety. Nothing else.”

“Were people dying?” Maggie asked.

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“I imagine all of them eventually.”

THE RICHARDSONS

THE RICHARDSONS

Bob Richardson slid in behind the wheel of his 1982 Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera and cranked the engine as his wife, Barbara, piled into the front passenger seat beside him.

“This is the stupidest idea,” she said.

He put the car into gear and eased out into the dark street.

“What’s yours?” he asked. “Wait inside the house for those things to break in?”

“Your lights aren’t on,” Barbara said.

“That’s intentional, darling.”

“You don’t think they can hear our engine?”

“Will you shut up and let me drive please?”

“Of course. This’ll be the shortest trip ever taken on account of there being no roads out of town.”

Bob turned onto First Avenue.

He wasn’t about to admit it verbally, or by action (which would mean using the lights), but it was pretty dark. Arguably too dark to drive without headlights.

It had been months since he’d been behind the wheel, and he felt rusty.

They passed the sheriff’s station.

With their windows rolled up, the screams emanating from town barely intruded into the tense silence inside the car.

Soon, they reached the outskirts.

Through his window, Bob could see movement in the pasture.

“They’re out there,” Barbara said.

“I know it.”

She reached across his lap and hit the lights. Twin beams shot out across the grassland. Eviscerated cows littered the pasture by the dozens, each one surrounded by a cluster of monsters in the throes of gorging themselves.

“Goddammit, Barbara!”

They all looked up from their kills, bloody mouths glistening in the high beams.

Bob floored the accelerator.

They blew past the goodbye sign—a perfect 1950s family, smiling and waving.

WE HOPE YOU ENJOYED YOUR VISIT TO WAYWARD PINES! DON’T BE A STRANGER! COME BACK SOON!

The road entered the forest.

Bob downgraded the high beams to corner lamps, the fog lights just bright enough to keep him straddling the double yellow.