Only one to drop the fifth as it drew within ten feet.

Three more abbies ran out of the house. In his peripheral vision, he noted movement in the streets all around him—swarms of abbies coming from every direction.

A growl behind him turned his head.

Two abbies darting straight at him on all fours like a pair of missiles—a large female and a smaller abby that couldn’t have weighed more than seventy-five pounds.

He aimed at the smaller one.

Bull’s-eye.

It went rolling across the pavement.

Its creamy-eyed mother skidded to a stop and crouched over her fallen young.

Let out a long, tragic howl.

Ethan ejected the spent shell.

Aimed.

The mother looked at him and there was no mistaking the intelligent, burning hate that narrowed her eyes.

She came up on her hind legs, ran at him.

Screeching.

Click.

Empty.

He dropped the shotgun and drew his pistol as he backed toward the Jeep, brought the mother down with two .50 cal rounds through her throat.

They were everywhere.

He made his move toward the Jeep.

A seven-foot-tall abby leapt onto the hood.

Ethan accidently put another two rounds—double tap muscle memory—through its upper torso.

He reached the driver-side door as an abby appeared around the back of the Jeep.

Ethan dropped it with a head shot at point-blank range, a half second before the abby got a talon through his windpipe.

He climbed in.

Couldn’t remember which key he’d tried last time and just shoved in the first one he could get between his fingers.

An abby appeared behind the plastic window on the passenger side.

A talon sliced through and a long, muscled arm reached inside.

Ethan lifted the Desert Eagle from his lap and shot it in the face as it tried to climb into the Jeep.

The key wouldn’t turn.

As he fumbled with the next one, a terrifying thought crossed his mind—what if Maggie’s car was actually parked across the street? Or up the curb a little ways? It’s not like she ever had to drive it.

Then I will be eaten alive in this Jeep.

A slashing behind Ethan.

He glanced back as a black talon tore through the plastic rear window.

The view through the old, dirty plastic was blurry, but he could see enough of the monster to draw a bead.

He shot through the window.

Blood spattered across the plastic and the pistol’s slide locked back.

Empty.

With only one magazine, it would take him a minimum of thirty seconds to dig out the box of .50 cal rounds, reload it—

Wait.

No.

He hadn’t brought extra ammo for the Desert Eagle.

Only the Mossberg.

The abbies were closing in. He could see a dozen of them through the windshield and hear more heading toward him from Maggie’s house.