Good-bye Friday-night drinks, King thought, as he pulled up to his modest two-bedroom ranch home at Fort Bragg. Hello Saturday-morning cartoons.

King opened the front door. The air inside smelled of popcorn and spray paint, which was odd but not unexplainable. What bothered him was that all the lights were out. Why does Rook have the lights off?

Rook, who was a natural with Fiona thanks to his many sisters, usually had her in bed by nine and waited for King’s return in front of the TV. King looked into the open concept kitchen. Not even the microwave clock was on. A quick glance outside at the lit streetlights confirmed his fear. Only his power was out.

He closed the front door silently and then listened. He didn’t hear a thing, but he did feel a draft. In the dim light provided by the streetlamp outside he looked at the back door. It was wide open.

Something was definitely not right.

And he was unarmed. With a courtroom hearing and several meetings to attend, King hadn’t thought to bring his sidearm. He moved silently through the living room and into the kitchen. He kept a locked Sig Sauer above the fridge. He took out the metal case, punched in the code, and opened the lid. His weapon was gone.

Shit, he thought.

Moving faster, King headed for his bedroom, where he had an arsenal hidden in his closet. He stopped outside his bedroom door, which was open. He stuck his head into the room, taking a quick look. The mattress was on the floor and his single dresser was in its regular place. That’s when he saw a mound resting on top of the bed, silhouetted against the windows, which were lit from outside.

His mind flashed back to the horrors he had found at the Siletz Reservation. He could smell the smoke and rotting bodies. Homes destroyed. Fires burning. Electrical wires twitching. He saw Fiona’s grandmother, trampled and crushed. And everywhere, mounds of strange gray dust left like a calling card. Just like the mound he saw on his bed.

His chest began to ache as his heart pounded. “Fiona,” he whispered.

He moved into the room and crouched by the bed. He reached out to the mound expecting to feel the same granular dust, but instead felt fabric. King let out a sigh of relief. The mound was his blankets.

That’s when it happened.

Three rapid-fire clicks.

He was struck in the back.

Then, as he spun, something hit his neck.

The third hit his forehead and stuck.

He reached up expecting to find some kind of hypodermic dart, but clenched his fingers around something soft and rubbery. As his fingers felt the suction cup tip, a high-pitch voice shouted from within the room, “I got him, Rook!”

The lights switched on, filling every room of the home with one-hundred-watt warmth. King squinted in the light and as he searched the room for the source of the voice. He didn’t see her.