Sam kicked it, spun, and fired into the room.
A charred wooden beam flew through the air. Sam ducked under it. The next one hit his left arm, shattering the elbow. More debris, a torrent of it, drove Sam back.
Suddenly, there was Caine, not ten feet from him.
Caine’s hands were raised over his head, fingers splayed, palms out. Sam clutched his shattered left elbow with his right hand.
“Game over, Sam,” Caine said.
Something blurred behind Caine and he reeled. He clutched his skull.
Brianna stood over him, brandishing her hammer.
“Run, Breeze!” Sam yelled, but too late. Even as he staggered backward, Caine fired at point-blank range and Brianna flew backward into the wall, through the wall.
Caine jumped after her through the opening.
Sam fired into the wall, burned a hole. Through it he could see Caine blowing away the next wall.
Sam felt the floor buckle beneath him.
The building was collapsing.
He turned and ran, but all at once the floor was gone and he was running in midair, falling, and the building with him, all around him, on him.
He fell and the world fell on him.
FORTY-FIVE
14 MINUTES
QUINN WATCHED IN frozen horror as the coyotes attacked the children.
He saw Sam fire and miss.
He saw Sam agonize for a terrible moment as Caine attacked the church.
Sam ran toward the church.
Quinn shouted, “No!”
He aimed.
“Don’t hit the kids, don’t the kids,” he sobbed, and squeezed the trigger. Aiming at the mass of coyotes. So many more than before.
The coyotes barely noticed him.
One fell, twisting, like it had tripped, and didn’t get up.
Then he could shoot no more, the beasts were in with the kids. He ran for the ladder and slid and fell and landed hard in the alley.
Run away, his brain screamed, run from it. He took three panicked steps away, toward the beach, running toward the beach, but then, as though some invisible force had taken hold of him, he stopped.
“Can’t run away, Quinn,” he told himself.
“Can’t.”
And even as he said the words, he was running back, into the day care, pushing past Mary shielding a child in her arms, past her out to the plaza, wielding the gun as a club now, running and screaming his head off like a lunatic, swinging the gun butt to a sickening crunch on a coyote’s skull.
Edilio was there and kids were shooting and Edilio was shouting, “No, no, no,” and then blood was in Quinn’s eyes and blood was in his brain and blood was everywhere and he lost his mind, lost his mind swinging and screaming and hitting, hitting, hitting.
Mary clutched Isabella to her and huddled with John, and the kids cried hearing the madness outside, the screams and snarls and guns.
“Jesus, save us, Jesus, save us,” someone was repeating in a racked, sobbing voice, and Mary knew in some distant way that it was her.
Drake heard the coyote howl in the night and knew in his black heart what it meant.
Enough of licking his wounds.
The battle was joined.
“Time,” he said. “Time to show them all.”
He kicked his own front door open and marched toward the plaza, shouting, shouting, wishing he could bay at the moon like the coyotes.
He heard guns firing and pulled his pistol from his belt and uncoiled his whip hand and snapped it, loving the crack it made.
Ahead, two figures were moving away from him, also heading for the sound of battle, two figures. One seemed impossibly small. But no, it was the other that was impossibly big. Sumo big. A shuffling, slumping, thick-limbed creature.
The two mismatched ones moved into a pool of light cast by a streetlamp. Drake recognized the smaller one.
“Howard, you traitor,” Drake shouted.
Howard stopped. The beast beside him kept walking.
“You don’t want any of this, Drake,” Howard warned.
Drake whipped him across the chest, tore Howard’s shirt open, left a trail of blood that was black in the harsh light.
“You better be on your way to help take down Sam,” Drake warned.
The rough beast stopped. It turned slowly and came back.
“What is that?” Drake demanded sharply.
“You,” the beast muttered.
“Orc?” Drake cried, half thrilled, half terrified.
“It’s your fault I did it,” Orc said dully.
“Get out of my way,” Drake ordered. “There’s a fight. Come with me or die right now.”
“He just wants some beer, Drake,” Howard said placatingly, clutching the wound in his chest, hunched over in pain, but still trying to manipulate, still trying to be clever.
“God’s judgment on me,” Orc slurred.
“You stupid lump,” Drake said, and whirled his whip hand and brought it down full force on Orc’s shoulder.
“AAHHH!” Orc bellowed in pain.
“Get moving, you moron,” Drake ordered.
Orc got moving. But not toward the plaza.
“You want a piece of Whip Hand, freak?” Drake demanded. “I’ll cut you up.”
Astrid felt a crushing weight on her lower back and legs. She was facedown, lying on top of Little Pete. She was stunned, but had enough presence of mind to understand that she was stunned.
She took a deep breath.
She whispered, “Petey.” She heard the sound through her bones. Her ears were ringing, muffling sound.
Little Pete wasn’t moving.
She tried to draw her legs up, but they wouldn’t move.
A charred wooden beam flew through the air. Sam ducked under it. The next one hit his left arm, shattering the elbow. More debris, a torrent of it, drove Sam back.
Suddenly, there was Caine, not ten feet from him.
Caine’s hands were raised over his head, fingers splayed, palms out. Sam clutched his shattered left elbow with his right hand.
“Game over, Sam,” Caine said.
Something blurred behind Caine and he reeled. He clutched his skull.
Brianna stood over him, brandishing her hammer.
“Run, Breeze!” Sam yelled, but too late. Even as he staggered backward, Caine fired at point-blank range and Brianna flew backward into the wall, through the wall.
Caine jumped after her through the opening.
Sam fired into the wall, burned a hole. Through it he could see Caine blowing away the next wall.
Sam felt the floor buckle beneath him.
The building was collapsing.
He turned and ran, but all at once the floor was gone and he was running in midair, falling, and the building with him, all around him, on him.
He fell and the world fell on him.
FORTY-FIVE
14 MINUTES
QUINN WATCHED IN frozen horror as the coyotes attacked the children.
He saw Sam fire and miss.
He saw Sam agonize for a terrible moment as Caine attacked the church.
Sam ran toward the church.
Quinn shouted, “No!”
He aimed.
“Don’t hit the kids, don’t the kids,” he sobbed, and squeezed the trigger. Aiming at the mass of coyotes. So many more than before.
The coyotes barely noticed him.
One fell, twisting, like it had tripped, and didn’t get up.
Then he could shoot no more, the beasts were in with the kids. He ran for the ladder and slid and fell and landed hard in the alley.
Run away, his brain screamed, run from it. He took three panicked steps away, toward the beach, running toward the beach, but then, as though some invisible force had taken hold of him, he stopped.
“Can’t run away, Quinn,” he told himself.
“Can’t.”
And even as he said the words, he was running back, into the day care, pushing past Mary shielding a child in her arms, past her out to the plaza, wielding the gun as a club now, running and screaming his head off like a lunatic, swinging the gun butt to a sickening crunch on a coyote’s skull.
Edilio was there and kids were shooting and Edilio was shouting, “No, no, no,” and then blood was in Quinn’s eyes and blood was in his brain and blood was everywhere and he lost his mind, lost his mind swinging and screaming and hitting, hitting, hitting.
Mary clutched Isabella to her and huddled with John, and the kids cried hearing the madness outside, the screams and snarls and guns.
“Jesus, save us, Jesus, save us,” someone was repeating in a racked, sobbing voice, and Mary knew in some distant way that it was her.
Drake heard the coyote howl in the night and knew in his black heart what it meant.
Enough of licking his wounds.
The battle was joined.
“Time,” he said. “Time to show them all.”
He kicked his own front door open and marched toward the plaza, shouting, shouting, wishing he could bay at the moon like the coyotes.
He heard guns firing and pulled his pistol from his belt and uncoiled his whip hand and snapped it, loving the crack it made.
Ahead, two figures were moving away from him, also heading for the sound of battle, two figures. One seemed impossibly small. But no, it was the other that was impossibly big. Sumo big. A shuffling, slumping, thick-limbed creature.
The two mismatched ones moved into a pool of light cast by a streetlamp. Drake recognized the smaller one.
“Howard, you traitor,” Drake shouted.
Howard stopped. The beast beside him kept walking.
“You don’t want any of this, Drake,” Howard warned.
Drake whipped him across the chest, tore Howard’s shirt open, left a trail of blood that was black in the harsh light.
“You better be on your way to help take down Sam,” Drake warned.
The rough beast stopped. It turned slowly and came back.
“What is that?” Drake demanded sharply.
“You,” the beast muttered.
“Orc?” Drake cried, half thrilled, half terrified.
“It’s your fault I did it,” Orc said dully.
“Get out of my way,” Drake ordered. “There’s a fight. Come with me or die right now.”
“He just wants some beer, Drake,” Howard said placatingly, clutching the wound in his chest, hunched over in pain, but still trying to manipulate, still trying to be clever.
“God’s judgment on me,” Orc slurred.
“You stupid lump,” Drake said, and whirled his whip hand and brought it down full force on Orc’s shoulder.
“AAHHH!” Orc bellowed in pain.
“Get moving, you moron,” Drake ordered.
Orc got moving. But not toward the plaza.
“You want a piece of Whip Hand, freak?” Drake demanded. “I’ll cut you up.”
Astrid felt a crushing weight on her lower back and legs. She was facedown, lying on top of Little Pete. She was stunned, but had enough presence of mind to understand that she was stunned.
She took a deep breath.
She whispered, “Petey.” She heard the sound through her bones. Her ears were ringing, muffling sound.
Little Pete wasn’t moving.
She tried to draw her legs up, but they wouldn’t move.
