The vacuum roared in the small room. The nozzle made a solid schoomp! as the baby—her baby—was sucked inside.

The motor whined, struggling to suck the baby inside. The little girl squirmed, her head caught in the impossibly large nozzle, her tiny limbs kicking, fingers and toes curling reflexively.

Sheila grabbed Geraldine by the arms, trying to wrench the vacuum away from the old woman before she really did kill her baby. The girl belonged to her—no matter what Dr. Mulligan said. She wanted her, wanted to keep her. This time, she'd carry the baby to term.

The tiny shoulders sucked into the nozzle. The girl's fragile little arms stopped squirming and her fingers clenched into tiny fists. Her feet bicycled. The umbilical cord flopped and wriggled, and Sheila could see it was attached to her own body, the other end disappearing underneath her gown and she could feel it, a strong pressure in her abdomen, like something tugging on her internal organs. Dr. Mulligan cackled, exhaling a mouthful of grave rot and blowflies, and she fought harder against Geraldine, even though the woman had taken off her gloves and her hands were black as basement mold, and the vacuum's whine crescendoed, sounding more like some kind of awful siren—

Martin dreamed of blood.

He stood under a hot geyser of blood, basking in it, letting it wash over him, pour over his face, into his eyes, his mouth and ears.

He tasted it, salty and rich. And he knew it belonged to Nadine Hinkley, to Letitia May Cotton, to Ruby St. John. Each swallow brought exotic new flavors: Paula Danlon, Tina Wozinski and Jessica Renault—James Barclay's victims. And Margaret Abbey's: Allen Merritt, George Leon and Lorne Cullen.

And Nico Damiani's.

Gorging on their blood. Choking on it.

He screamed.

The old civil defense warning siren woke him, and for a moment he couldn't tell if it was his own scream following him out of sleep. He rose from the floor, sweating, his back and arms stiff. He moved around cautiously, looking for the lamp on the reverend's desk, the horrendous alien howl bleating in the darkness. He bashed his knee on the edge and uttered a hushed curse.

"What's going on?" Sheila said, sounding frightened. "What is that?"

"It's the air raid siren. For the volunteer fire department."

She shivered. The wail of the siren in the dark gave her a chill. She still felt the dream with her. The flies coming out of Dr. Mulligan's mouth. Geraldine the nurse and the baby trapped in the vacuum. She doubted she would ever forget it.

Martin found the lamp and flicked it on. The office brightened. Sheila sat up on the cot, wearing only her mismatched bra and panties. The office was overly warm and they'd removed everything but their underwear before bed. Their clothes and Martin's blankets made a tangled mess on the floor at her feet.

"Same goddamn siren they had when my house was on fire. Still gives me the creeps."