Tarbell saw Ben Dorset nearing the road. It occurred to the sheriff that if he stopped and let the roaches take him, Dorset and Homer could get away. But in the pinch, he found he did not have the ultimate courage to sacrifice himself. Not, at least, while he was still a step ahead of the creeping doom. He raced with fire under his ribs now, not daring to look back. But he had seen how swiftly those impossible insects could move. He didn’t have to remember how fast a kitchen roach skittered away, a damn streak of brown lightning, gone almost before the eye could spot it. He had long legs, but the bugs would keep gaining if he faltered for even a moment.

In front of him he saw Ben Dorset reach the road. Hope skyrocketed in his heaving chest. But at the same moment, Russell Homer went sprawling. The sheriff tripped over him and both men lay tangled in the leaves. Fumbling frantically to regain their feet, they slipped and skidded against each other clumsily. Russell kept crying, “Sorry, sorry!” Amos Tarbell saved his breath, shoving at the man with a silent vehemence.

A roach landed on Homer’s cheek and folded its wings. Without thinking, the sheriff brought his gloved fist against the young man’s face. The roach was mashed, but Homer bellowed angrily, “What the hell you doing?”

Another roach landed, moving straight for Russell Homer’s eyes, and Amos Tarbell swatted the reddened, perplexed face again. The man raised his own fists, but at the same moment a roach flew onto the sheriff’s cheek, and the light dawned. Homer used his own gloved hand to flick the insect off, but its mandibles had already drawn blood. The young man had no choice but to do as Tarbell had done. He slapped hard, and squashed the roach against the sheriff’s jaw.

Both men heard the deputy sheriff bawling for them to hurry, but more roaches were hitting the men’s open faces, and, while they headed for the road, they had to stop at every step to brush away or squash the marauders.

The roaches were winning, sliding all over the men, too many to be dealt with. Russell Homer cried out in protest and panic against the implacable killers. The sheriff fought silently, knowing in his heart that he was losing, that this was the last battle of his life—against an inconceivable enemy.

Until all at once the men were blinded by a searing light that scorched their eyes.