The lifting wall brought me face-to-face with Alex and Patrick. They watched with stunned amazement as the tarp flopped over, the sky opening above their heads. Rebar went airborne all around me, dirt peppering my face like shrapnel. The floating tarp wrapped around the mass of Hosts, blasting them back into the corn, clearing the row.

Only Cassius, low to the ground, remained, staring at us, as befuddled as a dog can get.

The tarp lurched and bulged like a living blob.

The barn was fifty yards away.

An arm tore free of the tarp, thrust up at the moon.

Shoulder to shoulder, we sprinted for the big rolling door. My footsteps jarred the dirt, my view of the barn rocking side to side. I could hear movement behind us, getting closer. That awful quick panting at our backs.

My breath fired through my lungs. Patrick bolted out ahead, shotgun swinging at his side. He slammed into the door first, then started rolling it open. We hurtled toward him. The gap wasn’t big enough for us to fit through, but there was no time to slow. Alex bladed sideways and skimmed by. I followed her lead, the door clipping my shoulder. I spilled onto the floor, somersaulting over in time to see Patrick slide inside after us. As he put his weight to the door, the gap filled with mouths and eyeholes, countless Chasers clamoring to get in.

The hefty door slammed shut, smashing a woman’s frail wrist. Patrick strained against the handle to keep it closed, cords standing out in his neck. “The truck!” he shouted. “Get in the truck!”

Jack Kaner, bless him, had an extended-cab Chevy Silverado pickup with diesel V8, four-wheel drive, and dually tires. A no-screwing-around farm vehicle, parked across from the stall doors like a mirage. I ran for the driver’s seat, gave a quick prayer, and reached for the ignition. The keys were there. Cassius leapt over the tailgate as he was trained, and Alex swung into the passenger side, but I was accelerating before she could get the door shut. Patrick drove himself against the barn door, but he was losing the battle, his boots skidding across fallen hay.

As we neared, he let go. The barn door flew wide with the force of dozens of bodies, banging at the end of its tracks. Hosts tumbled over from the sudden lack of resistance. Aiming the cab at the opening, I sped past Patrick, who hooked the tailgate with his hand and swung himself into the bed like he always did when we repaired fence posts on Uncle Jim’s ranch.