Nightfall (6 page)

She jerked her head. “Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“The ... those—damn, what do you call them?” Eyes panicked, she gestured. “Those demon dogs. Can't you hear them?”

Outside, the voices sped right past frantic to hysterical. Shouts transformed into terrified shrieks. Fists pounded and feet kicked so that the door danced on its hinges.

Before Mason could stop her, she wrenched open the locks. Bodies tumbled into the cabin. Jenna skittered out of the way and stood motionless in the threshold. After jumping over a few people, Mason joined her. His arm brushing hers, he watched the snarling dogs as they circled the far end of the clearing. The moon glowed softly, not enough to reveal more than the suggestion of movement.

“They're not attacking,” she said.

“Planning.”

Jenna scanned the darkness, eyes intent. “Planning?”

“Get back.”

Mason slammed the door and cursed, resting his head against the wood. No amount of wishing would make any of this go away. So he turned and faced—a quick head count—
five
new burdens. That included one oddly silent little girl.
Great.

“Thank you,” Jenna whispered.

Anger cooked inside his chest like a swallow of boiling water. “Don't thank me, because I don't want the credit or the blame.
You
did this.”

The newcomers stared at them. Some had already pushed off the floor, finding chairs. Mason walked back to the kitchen, closer to his weapons. No one was going
Lord of the Flies
on him with his own guns, not when they had bigger enemies to confront.

He stood behind the table and assessed the group. A girl, maybe nine years old, and behind her stood a fair-skinned redhead in her forties. Mother and daughter shared the same wide indigo eyes. Then there was a punk in Goth gear, bristling with attitude, and a middleaged man who looked like a former athlete gone to seed. He had his arm around a chunky librarian type, who wore horn-rim glasses.

Not promising.

“Roll call,” he said harshly. “I don't want your names yet, just some information. Did anyone grow up on a farm?”

“What does it matter?” The Goth boy, about fifteen with black hair, scowled from the wing-backed chair. Jenna's book lay on the floor beside his oversized combat boots.

“Because you might be used to slaughtering animals,” Mason said. “You'll need that now. No hesitation. I guess you already know what we're up against.” He waited as the words sank in. Mouths dropped opened, but no one contradicted him. “Anybody?”

No one.

“Anyone an avid camper? Former military? Know how to light a fire without matches? Anyone ever fired a gun?” Not a one. “Fucking hell.” He jabbed a finger toward where Jenna stood beside the fireplace. “I told you this was a bad idea.”

She lifted her brows. “You going to throw them out?”

“Wait,” the aging athlete said. “Who put him in charge?”

“It's my house.” Mason inhaled and quickly reassembled the AR-15. Thirty seconds of sure, easy rhythm, the stuff of long practice and certainty.

He set his weapon aside and splayed his hands across the table. “Did anyone listen to the radio?”

The kid laughed. “Can't listen to anything. It's all toast.”

“Cut the sarcasm,” Mason said. “I'm talking about whatever comes on the air. Anybody?”

He had her now. He'd known the truth from Mitch's stories, but watching it spread across Jenna's face was a just reward. She rubbed her hands up and down her forearms. Slowly, finally, she nodded.

The librarian-looking lady was pale and sweaty. She sank down to the floor, holding her ankle. “What does radio have to do with those ... things? Oh God—all those people.”

Mason spared Jenna a glance. Her eyes had gone wide, her face pale.

“We can debate forever,” he said, “but you can't deny the threat. The wolves are at the door. The change is here—and whether you believe it or not, it's cataclysmic.” He paused to fill his lungs with air, scented by the stink of too many frightened bodies. “The more adaptable and flexible you were in your old life, the better you're going to handle this one.”

The new people spoke all at once, too many shrill questions, too much fear. His head felt like it would split in two. He didn't need this. He'd gladly go back to the waiting and boredom.

“You need food and sleep,” Mason shouted over the clamor.

He turned from the small, noisy rabble and rubbed his temples. Later, when no one was looking, he'd down a few aspirin. No sense in showing weakness. Strength and order would get them through.

“How did you know I listened to the radio?” Jenna stood at his elbow, her expression a tangle of questions. Her posture and the way she touched his forearm said she might be back on his side.

“Doesn't matter,” he said.

“Seriously, did Mitch tell you? Or did you spy on me?”

He placed both hands on her shoulders and gave a little shake. “It was Mitch. I'm not a stalker, for God's sake. Now are you with me or not?”

“Answer me something first. Did
you
listen to the radio?”

“No,” he said tightly. “I alphabetized my CDs by artist, then title. DVDs and books too. My time in the military never wore off.”

She glanced at where he still gripped her shoulders. “So what does that mean?”

“I'm not very good at ... at adapting.” He held her gaze. Mitch had spotted that weakness almost from the start. Not for the first time, Mason wondered if the promise to protect Jenna had been intended for his survival too. “I soak up the damage, not roll with the punches. Which means I need you as much as you need me.”

“Hello? You two? Can we get some help?” The big man knelt beside the woman with horn-rims. “Edna's been bit.”

The plump woman trembled where she sprawled on the floor. She wore a gray-flowered dress. Dirty layers of fluffy chiffon had been ripped and snarled, like a Sunday school teacher fallen on hard times. Behind the lenses of her glasses, one of which was fractured, her eyes appeared odd and filmy. She leaned down to rub her calf, then hesitated.

Mason just looked pissed. “Anyone have a medical background?”

“I do,” the redhead said. “I was a nurse's aide, but I have basic EMT training as well. There just wasn't any work near Penny's school, and I didn't want to uproot her.”

His expression said he wasn't interested in her life story. “Check her out. See how bad it is.” He turned away, but not before Jenna glimpsed the sick dismay in his eyes.

Whatever happened to a bite victim would be bad.

The aide knelt and said softly, “Let me take a look, all right? Here, loosen your fingers.”

Edna bent her head, studying her injured calf with remarkable dispassion. “It doesn't feel right.”

“The skin is broken.” The redhead spoke as if she were instructing a class of interns. “Puncture wounds consistent with an animal bite. Are you in much pain?”

“It burns.”

Despite herself, Jenna stepped closer. She wanted to see what a bite would mean. The skin circling the wound had darkened, turning ash gray. The holes themselves were an unwholesome purple, as if a bruise had slid inward, eating through muscle. The thought made Jenna shiver.

“Is your tetanus shot current?” the redhead asked.

“That's the least of her worries,” Mason muttered.

Jenna leveled a look that said he better not scare the kids.
Damn
. Now they had children to worry about, thanks to her. But she couldn't have left them to die.

A cold feeling crept into her bones. What if she'd sentenced them to a slower death? With so many extra mouths to feed, how long would the canned goods last? And what would happen to Edna? Jenna wondered if she'd done wrong in opening the door, even if it had been the compassionate choice.

The trick would be getting out of the cabin and back to civilization without those demon dogs snacking on them. Surely, there had to be somewhere safe. These woods didn't exactly qualify as “safe.” The mother would fight hard for her daughter, the kind of determination that might make a difference. On the other hand, the athlete-gone-to-seed resembled a worshipful puppy at the injured woman's side, and both of them were weak, out of shape. And the kid—he was a wild card.

She crossed to Mason and spoke in whispers. “How bad will this get?”

His silencing look said he couldn't answer in front of the strangers.

“Listen up,” he announced, loud enough to draw all their attention. “If you stay here, it's because I let you. That means doing whatever I say, when I say it. No asking why.”

“Okay.” The redhead's quick agreement made Jenna think she'd do anything to keep her little girl indoors.

Nobody else objected, which showed they had sense. The girl moved quietly to the hearth and curled up on the floor. She had yet to speak a single word. Maybe she was in shock, traumatized in ways that would take months, if not years, to overcome.

Jenna shuddered, trying not to imagine what this little group had seen. If Mason hadn't shoved her in the trunk, she might be a casualty by now.

Everyone relaxed a little once the nurse's aide had bandaged the bite mark. At least they didn't need to look at it. Jenna went into the kitchen and started another casserole—canned chicken this time. To make enough for everyone required extra cans of each ingredient. Mason cut her a sharp look as if he was thinking the same thing. She scowled right back at him.

“I want names now.” He settled onto one of the kitchen table benches with the assault rifle across his knees. “And the abridged version of how you wound up at my door.”

The man spoke for them. “I am—I
was
—the assistant coach for the Wabaugh JV football program. Bob Suleski.” He shifted as if he'd rise to shake hands, but Mason curled his fingers around the rifle's grip. Robert sank back into his chair, then tilted his head. “This is Edna Cartwright, the school guidance counselor.”

Edna pushed up her horn-rims and managed a wan smile. “Go Wolverines.”

If Jenna had recognized it, the name of the school might have provided her an idea of their location. But she'd never heard of Wabaugh.

“Edna and I, we carpool together,” Bob added.

Mason smiled. “How environmentally responsible of you,” he said, his voice a dark rasp. “And what about you, kid?”

The Goth flipped ink black hair out of his eyes. “I'm Midnight. I go to Wabaugh. Or I did,” he added, sounding uneasy.

He couldn't be more than fifteen, slender in a bony, boyish way. His feet were huge in contrast to the rest of him, his face pale and pretty. Jenna doubted his parents had named him Midnight. He might be Ed or Steve, maybe James, and he needed to get over himself fast.

By his impatient sigh, Mason must have shared her estimation. “Not your handle, kid. Your
name
.”

“Tru.” His posture became defensive. “It's my real name, okay? My mom named me after Truman Capote.”

“And I'm Angela Sheehan,” the redhead added. “My daughter's Penny.”

Edna, Bob, Angela, Penny, and Tru. Jenna committed their names to memory. She liked to think it was a nod to the idea they'd all survive long enough for such courtesies to matter.

“I'm Jenna,” she said from the kitchenette, scooping the casserole into its dish. “And this is Mason.”

No surprise that Mason brushed off her attempt at being civil. “I'll ask again: How'd you get here? How'd you find us?”

Jenna realized the reason for his single-mindedness.
If they found us, so could something else.
Her stomach dropped.

“You probably won't believe me,” Angela said, her voice low. “But it was Penny. We fled in Bob's SUV, but it stalled, like the whole electrical system popped at once. As soon as it stopped, she ran for the woods, so I chased her. The rest followed. She led us here, like she knew exactly where you'd be.”

Jenna glanced at the girl where she sat on the rug, a white stuffed bear clutched to her chest. Her eyes looked impossibly huge in her pale face, pools of twilight blue framed by flyaway corn-silk hair. Penny knew something. Jenna saw it in her haunted eyes, but the little girl jammed a thumb in her mouth and turned away.

“She's telling the truth,” Bob muttered. “I thought it was crazy, but after some of the things I've seen in the last few days ...” He trailed off, shrugging. “Everyone else was ... well—God there was just so much
blood
.” He pinched his eyes shut. “None of it makes sense, but ‘there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'”

Tru rolled his eyes. “Aw, quit the Shakespeare, would ya, Coach?”

From looking at the kid, Jenna suspected he had a cartload of issues. She imagined a row of neat, self-inflicted cuts beneath his long sleeve, and then wondered at her conviction. It wasn't suspicion; it was
knowledge
. She'd felt the same thing out in the woods, imagining how those demon dogs would look.

Bob's eyes went dull and distant. “When that
thing
bit Edna, I just kicked it. Kept kicking it.”

“Yeah, it kinda didn't look the same when he got through with it,” Tru said, grinning.

Jenna took a deep breath. She wanted to pound it out of all of them. What happened?
What happened out there?
But part of her didn't want to know, because that would mean it was true—that the troubles in the east had finally crossed the Mississippi. Nothing would ever be the same.