Vacation

25. 8:46 P.M.

Night.

Everyone had gathered down at the lakeshore, all the Paterville families waiting for the fireworks to begin.

A guard, Jay Fergus, walked along the perimeter of the fence.

He thought of the kid he had chased the night before. Kids don’t get the danger that’s out there, he thought.

Fergus had seen that danger up close. Like the night the Can Heads attacked his house where he and his family used to live. Good thing he had stocked up on weapons and ammo.

Still, all that firing, the kids, his wife screaming like a crazy person behind him.

Enough to make anyone a little insane.

The bodies of the Can Heads piling up around the house, as Fergus ran from front to back, holding them off.

Like the fucking Alamo.

A few, he recognized. The old police chief, nearly unrecognizable but still with that jowly face, only with more skin sagging from his neck. His clothes tattered, spattered with red.

Fergus had initially turned down Ed Lowe’s offer.

To be penned up in here.

Taking care of guests.

But that night…

That night convinced him.

In the end, they got so close that he could barely get rounds off. A few times he had to smash the butt of his gun into their heads, sending teeth and bloody drool flying.

When it was over, Fergus stood on his porch and sobbed.

He walked back into his house a changed man.

His wife said nothing. The two little kids kept crying.

But no one said a fucking thing.

Because he was a changed man.

Now Fergus walked the well-worn trail around the perimeter of the camp. Each night the same damn thing. Soon he’d pass Billy Kemp, another guard moving in the other direction.

Billy usually with the stench of cook’s moonshine. The stuff burned like gasoline in your gullet.

The stuff worked for Billy. Cook’s booze got the job done.

Cook.

To call that fat load, the guy who used to work at—

“’Sup, dude?”

Billy appeared early. Hustling too fast along the perimeter. What good was doing this walk if you didn’t actually take the goddamn time to look at the fence?

“Nice and quiet, Billy. You?”

Same routine every night.

Billy burped. A full belly, and a good pint or so of white lightning in his gut.

He slurred the words. “Same here.”

Careful, Billy, Fergus thought. How long would Lowe let him go on like this? He might be under the radar now. Couldn’t last forever, though.

Drunk guard. Puts us all at risk.

Billy walked past him, his automatic rifle dangling loosely when Fergus knew it should be held at a 45-degree angle. Didn’t the asshole ever take any gun safety courses?

Good thing it wasn’t Billy who had stumbled upon the kid. Probably would have blown the little shit’s head off.

Then he would have made a joke.

Look, roadkill!

Fergus kept walking, looking the fence up and down. Unlikely anything would even come close. The outer fence electric, the inner fence taller, with two feet of razor ribbon at its top.

This camp is a fucking fortress.

Nobody gets in, he thought.

He heard a blast, the fireworks about to begin.

Tom Blair gave Jack a nudge. Everyone’s eyes turned upward, waiting.

“Want a swig?”

“My head’s still ringing from last night.”

“I hear you—stuff can be painful.”

Tom took a gulp, then nodded at the beach full of people. “It’s like the world is still the same, hm? Families, fireworks…”

Jack nodded in the dark. “Yeah. But it isn’t.”

Christie stood near Sharon, the kids close to the water’s edge. Jack enjoyed talking with Tom. Nothing about work. But he didn’t think Christie enjoyed the quiet company of his wife, Sharon.

Then, as if reading Jack’s mind, as if he had to spoil things…

“You check out the security here? I mean, being a cop and all.”

“I’ve looked around. Fence looks secure. Lots of armed guards.”

“Seen the cameras?”

“Hm?”

“They’re in the trees. All over the camp. I just happened to spot one. Then I saw others. Way up.”

That was something Jack should have spotted.

“Guess they’re useful.”

Another swig for Tom. When he extended the bottle again, Jack took it. Changing his mind, and wanting that burn.

“Sure. They take their security seriously here.”

“Looks that way.”

Each took another swig.

A few silent moments.

“Come on,” Tom said. “Let’s get this show started.”

And then a single rocketing yellow-white streak flew into the sky and exploded into a dazzling explosion of sparks.

The crowd cheered.

Jay Fergus came to his turnaround point, just in time to see another guard, Jackie Weeks, hitting his. A casual wave in the shadows, as they both turned and started their slow, gradual walk back along the perimeter.

Tedious work. No wonder so many guards drank. Nothing but the bug sounds, the occasional creaking of a tree limb bending if there was a wind.

You had to force yourself to keep your pace slow.

Billy Kemp would be coming back this way as well. The jet fuel in his gut making his walk a snaky thing on the straight path that ran beside the fence.

Fergus looked up.

Fireworks starting for real.

In their glare, he could see Billy stumbling along.

Christ, what a freakin’ mess. Ed Lowe should can his ass.

Put him outside. See how he likes it out there.

And now—closer to Fergus.

A big explosion boomed from the lake.

Then, in the quiet, something new.

A rattling.

From real close.

A rattling. From the fence.

Fergus looked up.

Nothing at first. Not without a flashlight. Flashlight killed your night vision.

Best not to use it.

But on a moonless night it was hard to see anything except when the skies lit up.

His eyes moved up the fence—a big flash of light—and he did see something. A dark shape at the top. Like a sack or a bag? Resting right on top of the tight coiled of razor ribbon.

Thoughts came quickly to Fergus.

Whatever it was should have shorted the outer fence. Made a connection. Shorted the fence out, triggered an alarm.

What the hell was it? He started to reach for his flashlight.

Kemp came stumbling toward Fergus, oblivious. Fucking oblivious.

Hand on the flashlight.

But there would be no time to get it out, unclip it from the belt, turn it on, aim it.

A bunch of smaller explosions echoed in the woods. No light from them.

So many things had to happen to get the flashlight on.

None of which could happen. Now. When there simply was no time.

A big ooooh! erupted from the families.

Jack saw the light of the fireworks reflected in all the faces looking upward.

A breeze blew off the water. Chilling. Gooseflesh rose on Jack’s arm. Christie leaned into him. He put his arm around her.

The kids nearby, heads tilted up.

For the next few seconds, Jack just enjoyed the show.

Hand on flashlight.

About as far as Fergus got.

Then, they leaped onto the outer fence—three, then four of them. Tattered clothes, nearly naked, clambering up to what was now clearly the body that had been thrown on top.

A bridge across the razor ribbon.

But what about the thousand volts of electricity?

Nothing, as they made their way up quickly.

Fergus yelled, “Kemp! Look!”

All Kemp did was stop, standing next to the Can Heads nearly at the top of the fence.

Fergus stopped reaching for his flashlight.

He backed up. He started to lower his gun, wondering why it took so long to get it into position, to get the damn safety off, to get his goddamn hand onto the trigger, to begin aiming—all so fucking long.

His left hand flew to the walkie-talkie clipped to left shoulder. Even hitting the send button seemed to be the most difficult task.

He pressed hard, and yelled, “Code Red!”

They’d know who sent it. They’d know what sector. Back in the service area where they had all the cameras, where they monitored the entire camp, the fences. By now, they should have picked up the shapes on their cameras.

The first Can Heads had reached the top, using the body to slide over and leap down.

One landed right on Kemp, who never saw it coming.

Fergus itched to shoot but now he’d kill Kemp. No doubt.

There were others on the fence. Another two, three, four.

Christ, he thought.

What the hell was wrong with the goddamn fence?

He started shooting.

But even as he sprayed the fence, he began pulling back.

With that one thought that drove him to come here, to live in Paterville, to do this:

I want to stay alive.

Jack turned his head.

Hearing the noise above the intermittent explosions coming from the sky.

Everyone else would have missed it.

Just another explosion.

He tightened. Gently, he pushed Christie away.

“Jack, what’s—”

He listened. Shots. Popping noises that he could hear between the firework blasts.

Maybe kids with firecrackers, he thought for a second, taking the most benign thought that his brain offered.

Fireworks. Kids. Leftover firecrackers.

But no. Gunfire had such a distinctive sound.

“C’mon,” he said, to Christie at first. Then, almost roughly, he tapped the heads of the kids. “Kids. We gotta go.”

Another brilliant flash.

“What? Why are we—”

Other people barely noticed Jack herding his family away from the lakeshore.

No one else had noticed the gunfire.

Only seconds for all this, and then suddenly everyone knew why Jack was pulling back, why he was guiding his family away, why he was ignoring the people giving him confused looks as he roughly pushed past them.

A giant horn blast sounded that dwarfed even the explosive sounds booming from the lake. Ear-splitting. One blast, then another, and another.

Then a clipped voice as no new fireworks rocketed into the sky. Saying its short sentence, alternating with horn blasts: “Everyone return to your cabins immediately.”

Jack and his family nearly off the beach.

The voice calm; the horn screaming down at people probably said enough about what was happening.

More blasts, then the voice again. Jack rushed, almost shoving his family back to their cabin as they were suddenly joined by a sea of people, all hurrying.

Some screaming; the panic there so fast.

Jack was tempted to just push people out of the way. To his left, he saw someone stumble to the ground, and get trampled.

He steered Christie and the kids close by the figure on the ground. With one hand he reached down and pulled the woman up.

Her eyes wide. Crazed. She didn’t stop to say thank you, but turned and joined everyone madly streaming away.

The lake was hemmed in the one side by the Great Lodge and the cabins, the thick woods to the rear.

No one would go in the direction of the woods.

Everyone funneled onto one of the paths that would get them off the beach, away from the lake, the crazy alarm horns only making their terror worse.

They moved so fucking fast, Fergus thought. Flying over the top.

He watched the two of them on Kemp. Ripping him apart like kids tearing into a present on Christmas morning.

The others began scattering.

Except for a few who noticed Fergus shooting.

He kept backing up even as he sprayed his gun left and right.

Can Heads could take a lot of hits. Like they felt no fucking pain whatsoever.

They’d be on him soon.

He thought help would have arrived, the other guards.

Where the hell were they?

One of his bullets kicked a hole in the skull of a nearby Can Head with no clothes and a beard that made it look like a deranged lion.

“Fuck it,” Fergus said.

He turned and started running.

There was an army of Can Heads entering the camp, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing Jay Fergus could do alone but find someplace to go, someplace to hide—to stay alive.

As he ran, he became aware that all the sounds he heard before—the bugs, the wind—were now joined by so many others.

The alarm, the screams, and just behind him, so close, the terrible sound of steps chasing, racing after him.

26. 9:11 P.M.

Fergus looked over his shoulder, the sound of the steps as close as mosquitoes buzzing his head on a muggy night.

A quick look back, and then he didn’t see what was in front of him as he ran right into a Can Head that had somehow appeared on the trail in front of him.

His slam sent them both falling forward, rolling on the packed dirt and pine needles.

God, he felt them grabbing him, pulling at him, then bites—one, two, three—until he couldn’t tell where the pain was coming from anymore.

He prayed that someone would see.

One of the other guards. And not hold back, not flinch—but fire as quick as they could.

To stop this.

He screamed out his agony.

A howl that must have filled the woods.

Then a blessed sound as he heard the repetitive coughing of machine-gun fire.

His prayers answered as bullets hit, and one, somehow, somewhere, made everything instantly black.

Jack hurried his family along. The cabin not far now.

Christie guided Simon, holding his hand. Jack had a firm grip on Kate. Now families started breaking away, bolting, tripping, racing for their own cabins, the horns blaring, so loud, deafening.

At one point he felt Kate stumble on something, but his grip was tight enough to hold her up, near dangling, not even pausing in their forward movement until she regained her footing again and started running.

The horns—you almost couldn’t hear the screams with them blaring so loudly.

Or the gunfire.

Jack tried to place the gunfire as he ran.

Where were they fighting?

How the hell did the Can Heads break in?

With goddamned electric fences?

Jack raced up the path to their cabin, Christie right behind. He saw the Blairs get into theirs.

Good, he thought. They’re inside.

He got his family into their cabin.

He released Kate, and went around to the windows, then to the front and back doors, shutting and locking them.

The windows. So damn easy to toss a rock at one and gain entry.

Had Lowe and his Paterville team never expected this?

Ever planned for this fucking situation?

Everything shut tight, he ran into the bedroom. Opened a drawer and took out his gun. He grabbed a box of bullets.

Out to the living room.

At least the horns sounded more distant with everything buttoned up. The kids looked up at him, hiding the gun still in its holster.

But Christie saw it.

“Jack.”

He walked over to the three of them on the couch.

Perhaps it’s the way he held the gun. Not as if he was going to use it. Because he wasn’t.

He passed it to Christie.

“Jack, what—”

Then he passed her the box of bullets.

She knew how to shoot. He had made sure of that.

“Where are you going?”

“It’s loaded, Christie. And you got more bullets in the box. And here, on the couch”—he looked around the small living room—“is where you stay. You understand? You can see all the windows. The doors. Right from here.”

He felt the kids’ eyes moving from the gun to his face.

He forced himself to smile.

“Probably nothing. But best to be safe. Just like we’ve practiced at home.”

The drills. The government urging everyone to practice what they would do. To prepare.

Like what to do in case of fire.

Only in this case, what to do in case of cannibals crawling into your house.

Finally, Christie asked the question: “What are you going to do?”

He stood up. “Make sure things are okay out there.”

She shook her head. “Jack. You stay here. We need you here.”

He took a breath. Yes, true, he thought. If you wanted to wait until some of them came.

Waiting could be just the wrong thing to do.

“I’m going to take a look.” He paused. “Make sure it stays nice and quiet in Paterville.”

“Daddy, stay,” Simon said, picking up on his mother’s worry.

“I’ll be back real soon.”

Kate said nothing.

“But you don’t have a gun now!” Christie said, her voice sounding exasperated, as if she already knew this was an argument she would lose.

He looked right at her. “Yes, I do. Plenty of guns.” A casual shrug of the shoulders. “In the car.”

She shook her head.

“If you get there.”

He wanted to tell her that if there was something bad going on outside, then one small revolver and a box of bullets would be precious little against a bunch of Can Heads.

That he knew.

But he didn’t have to say it.

“We may need those guns.” Another smile. “Or not. But I can get them fast.”

Did she agree? He didn’t know. But he saw her eyes had grown watery. She fought her fear for the kids.

Then another telltale sign. Her right hand closing over the grip of the pistol. She also put the box of bullets down beside her and undid the holster clasp.

“Keep the doors locked. Listen for sounds. And when I come back, I’ll knock—three… two… one.”

Christie nodded.

He looked at his kids. Scared. Quiet.

He went to the door, undid the sliding bolt lock, and walked out, not having a clue what he’d see there.

The first thing Jack noticed: nobody outside.

Gunfire came from three, maybe four different areas, so all the guards must be out there, dealing with the Can Heads that had gotten in.

If the fence had gone down, was it back up yet? Or could the Can Heads keep coming in?

Some of the cabins were dark. Maybe the people thinking that if they looked dark, empty, the Can Heads would skip them.

Might work.

Or might be exactly what a deranged Can Head would look for.

He started running full out, arms pumping, and immediately felt the pain in his leg.

Can’t run for a while, Dr. Kleiner had said. No running for you. All that running, the sudden stretching of muscles. Could set you back, way back.

Not to mention the pain.

Jack ran as fast as he could.

The Great Lodge looked empty, unprotected. Yep. All the guards dealing with the attack.

Maybe everyone was. Not just the guards. Lowe, Shana, the cooks. Anyone who could use a gun.

He peeled away down the trail that led to the parking lot. The parking lot as dark as ever, with its two spots of light.

Perfect for a trap.

But he didn’t hear any gunfire down there.

Got to do this fast, he thought. Get a gun and get the hell out of there.

His left foot hit a rock and he went flying forward. Breaking his fall with his right leg.

Months of rehab loomed when he got out of this.

When.

Always the right way to think about it. When. Not fucking “if.” “If” could lead to mistakes. “If” led to fear.

He ran between cars, scraping doors, banging into mirrors, hurrying as fast as he could to the Explorer.

It would be so damn easy for one of them to jump out from behind the shadow of a car.

Not much he could do about that.

He reached his car and used the electronic key to open the rear door.

He ripped up the mat that covered the metal plate of the storage compartment.

Now he had to use the key. In the goddamn dark. Get the key in, turn it, get the thing open.

What’s around here? Anything around here, coming closer, while you fumble with that key?

In the wrong way at first, then a little twist and the key slid home. He unlocked the compartment.

Christie released her hold on the gun.

Kate wanted a hand, and so did Simon. The gun sat on her lap, almost in a line with the two hands she held.

The horns constant. The warning message, though, had stopped. The dull, repetitive voice saying, Please return to your cabins immediately.

Everyone had done that.

Christie looked at Simon.

“You okay, Si?”

He nodded. Then to Kate, waiting her turn for the question.

“Kate?”

Another nod.

Then Kate said, in a voice that sounded as if it came from miles away, “Mom… are you okay?”

The question made Christie’s heart break. She was fighting so hard to hold back the tears, of fear, worry… she didn’t know what. The emotions all jumbled.

And Kate asks about her?

Christie gave her daughter’s hand a squeeze, then a smile. “I’m fine.”

Then, feeling that they both wanted more, “Dad will be back soon. They stopped the message. So, things must be okay now. Maybe… maybe it was a false alarm.”

As soon as she said that, her optimism sounded hollow. “Dad will be back. We’ll do what he says. He’s a police officer. He knows what he’s doing.”

The two kids nodded at that.

Because that was one thing they all agreed on.

Then all three of them went quiet again.

Jack grabbed the M-16 automatic rifle, loaded with hollow points.

He stuffed his pockets with boxes of shells. Then he grabbed one of the Glock 22s. Double the kick and killing power of the gun Christie had.

He wished she had it.

Too much kick for her, though she had shot it, before trying the bigger handgun out at the firing range. Laughing as it threw her backward.

“Got to plant your feet, kiddo.”

“I see that.”

“Plant your feet, lock your arm into position. Tense your muscles. Get ready for that kick. Then, eye on the target—”

“Squeeze slowly.”

“Exactly.”

Jack still had other weapons in the compartment, and the timed C4 explosives built for use in the narrow corridors and hallways of city apartment buildings. Blow in a door. Kick a hole in a wall.

No need for them now.

He took an extra flashlight he had there and stuck it in his back pocket.

He slammed the case shut, pulled down the trunk door, and started running back up to the main area of the camp.

The gunfire continued.

This thing wasn’t under control.

When he got to the top of the trail, near the left side of the lodge, he saw a guard there.

“Hey, you got weapons? They’re in the fucking woods. We can use all the help we can get.”

The guy radiated fear like woodstove heat.

“Getting back to my family,” Jack said, barely pausing his agonized limping run.

The guy reached out and grabbed Jack’s arm.

“You leave the Can Heads out here, and your family and all the families could be fucked. You get that?”

Jack shrugged off the arm. Started to run.

But the words were clear enough. And worse, Jack knew they were true.

Holing up in the cabin was just the wrong thing to do. Not with them still here, using the darkness, the trees, the shadows. Waiting.

“Okay. Where the hell are they?”

The guy pointed to the woods near the field. “Over there, and some have headed up to the service camp. Firing going on there. That’s where I’m headed. Other spots down by the main gate.”

“And the fence? Is it up, running, or can those things just keep coming?”

“I don’t know,” the guy said.

Jack looked at the path that led to the field and the thick woods past it. That was the area closest to his family’s cabin.

“Okay.”

Jack started running, this time in the new direction.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

I have to do this.

He moved as fast as he could.

The woods turned into a wall of darkness, a black gloom made by the thickness of the trees, the shadows.

Flashes of gunfire.

But not a lot of it.

Could the Can Heads be winning?

He tried to come up with a plan. Couldn’t just run in there. But all he had to draw on was working the city’s streets and their massive buildings.

Out of his element here.

He lowered the rifle’s muzzle so it pointed straight ahead. He looked at the flashes of gunfire and entered the woods.

Jack moved slowly.

When a Can Head attacked, it moved fast. Some crazy adrenaline-fueled burst of speed that helped them nail a body.

So, moving slowly might actually tip off any guards that he was human.

He walked steadily in the direction of a lone gun spitting out flashes.

Jack saw the guard.

One fucking guard, standing with a group of Can Heads circling him. They moved around the guard, taking steps, tightening the noose they had him in.

They could take a lot of bullets.

And that was another thing: how many bullets did Jack have? Should he have brought more? And when they were gone…

Jack saw a Can Head leap forward, taking shots from the guard and dropping to the ground. But the suicide move also allowed the others to accelerate their hunting circle. The guy began literally spinning on his feet, blasting, crazed.

Maybe, at this point, insane.

If Jack was going to help, it better be now.

He slowly tightened his trigger finger. The Can Heads’ crouching bodies caught the scant light, making them look like rocks and bushes… dark clumps moving.

Jack began firing.

Two of the Can Heads fell immediately.

The others, seeing their simple feral trap fall apart, turned to him.

Jack had planted his back against a tree. It gave him some protection from any rear attack.

The guard had stopped firing.

Stopped—or out of ammo?

Either way, the few Can Heads left surrounded him, ready to leap.

This would all play out in seconds. That’s all he had, Jack knew, from so many attacks and battles in the city.

He aimed at one Can Head to his left, firing, kicking it back, maybe not dead. But shifting to the right, and catching that one in the skull, dead center. A head shot always took them out.

Always, that is, except for those freakish moments when they didn’t and somehow the thing could still move with a chunk of skull and brain matter missing.

This time, though, the Can Head got kicked off his feet. A third hesitated, perhaps smelling death.

Jack fired at it. At the same time, he dug out his Glock.

Anything could happen with an M16. A jam, some malfunction.

Two guns gave him some security.

With all three attackers dead, Jack hurried to the guard, now with one Can Head riding his back, mouth open. Another had locked itself to the guard’s midsection.

Not a job for the rifle. This was up-close work.

Jack took aim at each Can Head, knowing that mere inches separated a shot that could save the guy’s life from one that would just make the Can Head’s work easier.

Jack’s first shots were tenuous. Not wanting to get too close. But each second brought deeper wounds to the guard.

He adjusted his aim, taking a chance that a sudden jerk of the guard’s body would expose him to a killing shot.

The Can Head on the guy’s back caught one shell. It fell off the guard as if thrown from a horse.

The guard fell to his knees. Jack fired three shots at the creature digging at the guy’s midsection.

It stopped moving.

But as if clamped on, it stayed stuck to the guard.

Jack walked over and crouched down, not knowing whether he’d just saved a dead man.

The guard’s eyes were open. He could speak.

“Th-thank you.”

Hard to tell about his wounds. Guy could be bleeding out all over the place.

Jack pried the dead Can Head off the man, like undoing a blue crab from a net.

Its claw hands, even the feet with their uncut nails, all dug in.

Then the man was free.

“Can you stand?”

What little light there was caught at least three nasty wounds, all oozing.

But the blood wasn’t gushing out; it wasn’t pouring onto the forest floor.

With his own gun silenced, Jack could hear gunfire around them.

“Can you stand?” Jack asked again.

The man seemed to wobble as he tried to make his legs work to get himself up.

But then, like some amazing feat of science, the guy stood.

“You have some bad wounds.” Jack nodded at the woods. “Things still going on in here. Think you can manage to shoot some more of them?” The guy made a face that looked about as unsure as any Jack had ever seen.

“I’ll be with you. I have a little experience killing these suckers.”

The man nodded.

“Good. Clear this area. Then you can get your wounds tended to. Okay?”

Another nod.

“One thing: remember to reload whenever you can. Got it?”

“Yes.”

Jack wanted to get back to his family.

But then from behind the lodge, more gunfire.

Fuck, he thought.

The snaps and pops insisting that he go there.

He left the guard and ran as best he could in the direction of the gunfire.

He stopped.

The figures ahead—shadowy. But he could see Lowe, Shana, a few other guards, surrounded.

Christ, had to be ten… twelve Can Heads. Circling. That hunting shit they did.

Everyone’s guns out, maybe thinking about conserving bullets. Their own panic making them do just the wrong thing—turn to look this way, then that way, feeding their panic, fueling the disorientation.

Only seconds before the Can Heads would pounce. Lowe and his workers would be turned into mincemeat.

Jack took a step—a twig snapped.

One Can Head shot his head around, the sound of the dry stick just able to penetrate its consciousness. One of Lowe’s guards fired a gun at another. Then another shot, only this time—a click, the weapon empty.

Another Can Head spun toward Jack as if smelling the new interloper.

Right, thought Jack. I’m here.

He started firing.

For every shot that hit one of the Can Heads between the eyes, another barely grazed a shoulder, an arm. Now the group of cannibals was equally divided between moving toward Lowe’s group, and moving on Jack.

Jack started walking toward them, reminding himself: stay steady, take time to aim. Try to fucking anticipate the Can Heads’ next crazy move.

Anticipate.

As if.

The rifle kicked one back on its heels. Another blast removed one’s head clear from its shoulders. And still the thing walked another few damn feet before collapsing to the ground.

Jack kept walking into the circle, as if bridging the gap between Lowe’s party and his weapons. The closer he got, the better he could aim and shoot.

Only two of the things were left standing; sniffing the air like pigs, snorting, smelling the blood, mad with hunger but also seeing the death around them.

Got you, fuckers, Jack thought.

He easily took these two out in their confusion.

And then it was quiet.

Lowe and his people safe.

Jack’s guns smoking in each hand like mini-chimneys.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what you get for ruining my fucking vacation.”

27. 10:41 P.M.

The alarms stopped.

“It’s over,” Christie said. “I think you should try and get some sleep.”

Kate asked the obvious question.

“Where’s Dad?”

“He’ll be here. I’m sure he helped.” She forced a smile.

“He said he’d be back soon,” Simon said.

“And he will. Tell you what. As soon as he’s back, I’ll send him in. Okay?”

“Okay,” Kate said.

Simon looked up. “I want to hear what happened.”

“Probably nothing. Only an alarm.”

Just saying those words made them sound false.

“Come on—brush your teeth and into bed.”

The two kids slid off the couch and walked into their room. With them gone, Christie looked at the door and then walked over to the front windows.

Lights on outside. Everything looked quiet.

Where the hell was he?

She turned away from the window, the locked door, and walked into the kids’ room.

Ed Lowe nodded to Shana and the others, who headed to the Lodge.

At the same time, a different kind of siren started coming from the horns all around the camp.

Lowe stood close. “The all clear. Fence back up.” He took a breath. “We stopped them.”

Jack looked right at him. “Fences back up? Great. So what the fuck happened?”

“I don’t know. We’ve got power back up now. Something— I’ll check it out. I’ll find out what goddamned happened.”

“So much for your security.” He turned away to head back to the cabin.

Lowe grabbed Jack’s right arm. “Hey, Jack, hold on a second.”

Jack shrugged off Lowe’s hand.

“I got to get back. My family’s waiting.”

“Of course, of course. Can I walk with you a bit?”

“Be my guest.”

The pain in Jack’s leg had come roaring back, now that the adrenaline had faded. All that running.

Killing my leg, he thought.

“What you did was amazing, Jack.”

“Right.”

“Helping us. Taking down those Can Heads. Can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“You know, we could use someone like you.”

Jack shook his head. “Someone like me? What’s that? Some cop who came up here to get the hell away? And finds his family at fucking risk?”

His voice rose, the tension of the night hitting him.

He would have liked nothing more than to take Ed Lowe and shake him, grab his shirt and ask him, How the hell did you let this happen?

“No. And easy, friend. No need to raise your voice. Just that this can be a safe place, Jack. Protected, with guards. But even in safe places, things can happen.”

Jack stopped. They were close to the path that led directly to his cabin and he didn’t want Lowe following him all the way there.

“Things can happen? Is that how the damn fence got knocked out?”

“Hey, Jack—I said easy, huh? No need to yell. We’re all friends here, right?”

“How about an answer?”

“You can take the cop out of the city… and you still get a cop, right?”

“Lose power to your fence, and—shit—in a place this large, everyone here is suddenly vulnerable. Enough Can Heads outside, waiting. If they had all gotten in, it would have been a bloodbath.”

“We have backups. Backup power. Should have kicked in. Redundancies. I’ll get to the bottom of—”

Jack shook his head. “Redundancies? Really? Didn’t see anything too fucking redundant tonight.”

“I said things can happen. Whatever shorted out the fence led the backup to overload. Never happened before. Should have been a smooth transition, like a switch being thrown. Don’t worry, Jack. I have people looking at it… working on it now. Won’t happen again.”

“How reassuring. Will you call the state police?”

Lowe’s face caught the glow from the lamp behind Jack. The fleshy face now smiling. The tight-as-a-drum Lowe from before had been replaced by this stubby guy with an idiotic grin.

Welcome, newcomers!

“Of course I’ll call the state police. But they have their hands full out there. They’d come if we needed any help. But it’s all over now. They’ll swing by tomorrow.”

“And who’d you lose?”

Lowe grimaced. “Not too sure yet. But I know of one. A guard. Drunk. Right near that section of fence that went down. One drunk guard who couldn’t fire fast enough.”

Lowe looked away.

“We’re better off without that asshole.”

Christie heard the voices and went to the big front window of the cabin.

She saw Ed Lowe standing in a pool of light, talking to Jack.

Why don’t you just come back? Christie wondered.

Why do you have to do a goddamn postmortem with Ed Lowe?

She remained standing at the window.

“Jack, I meant what I said. We could use you here. Your skills—training my guys.”

“I have a job, thanks.”

“Yeah. Back there. You think your family is really looking forward to going back? How long before things in the city go completely to hell? And the food? What you have to eat there. Is that how you want your family to live?”

“That’s life.”

“Not here, it isn’t. You could be safe. And we have food, real food.”

Jack looked up at his cabin.

“Look, I said thanks, but no thanks. Gotta go. Just make sure you find out what happened with the fence.”

He turned away and walked up to the cabin.

For a few moments, he thought Ed Lowe would stand there and watch him walk all the way back. But Lowe headed back to the lodge.

No longer engaged in a heated conversation, the pain hit Jack full force.

Need to take some real painkillers tonight.

Even though he hated the way the Vicodin made him feel in the morning, all cotton balls in his head, so groggy.

Christie opened the door for him and immediately raised her hands, balled into fists as if she was about to beat his chest.

Instead, she backed up, letting him in.

“The kids… I said you’d come in. Say good night.”

Her voice cold; her eyes on him equally chilly.

She had passed being worried and sailed straight on to really pissed.

“They still up?”

“I’m sure. Guess they want to hear what happened. The cop adventures of their father.”

“Yeah. Okay. As soon as I wash off some of this blood.”

“Then we talk,” she said.

“Fine.”

Christie had started by telling him how she expected him to come right back. How scared she was, and how angry.

But then, when she was done, she let him talk.

And she listened as Jack spoke about the fence, the guards, and she quickly knew he was downplaying it.

The failed fence had been a major threat.

And despite Lowe saying things happen, he didn’t understand how it could have happened.

“So, with all their damn security, the safety of Paterville—”

“Not so safe.”

He then told her what Lowe had asked him.

“What? To live here?”

“Yeah.”

She looked away. “God. I don’t know. I mean after tonight… But maybe…?”

Jack didn’t say anything.

He got up. Their chat ended. She watched him take a step toward the bedroom.

“Your leg—you messed up your leg. Your doctors won’t be happy.”

“Me either. Can you grab me a Vicodin? Hate it, but… And a glass of water. I need a shower.”

While she went to get the pill and the water, Jack limped into the bedroom.

Jack took the pill and held it.

“Thanks,” he said.

Christie, in a short nightgown, turned off the lamp on the dresser.

As she did, Jack took a sip of water.

But he put the pill on the end table near his side of the bed.

He had planned on taking the Vicodin. Planned on getting knocked out and sleeping.

But in the shower, his plans changed.

He got under the covers. Windows still shut and locked, outside now all seemed quiet and still, as if nothing had happened.

Christie shut off the light on her side of the bed.

Jack lay there, feeling so achy, the too-soft pillow surrounding his head.

His eyes were shut, but sleep seemed impossibly far away.

He felt Christie’s arm around him. Then it tightened, the hug promising, her hand straying. He felt her reach down, encircling him, the feeling electric.

He turned to her, ready so fast, his senses so awake after the madness of the night.

“The kids?”

“Asleep,” she said. “Late for them.” Then: “Just be quiet.”

He felt her slowly slide down, her lips planting kisses. No sounds outside to compete with the gentle noise of her kisses. His hands went to her face, caressing her, and she started to slide back up to kiss him on the lips.

He could feel her body, lean, taut—she put as much time into exercise as he did—position itself over him.

A big kiss, and he felt her on him, straddling him—and suddenly there really was nothing else. Just this shaded room, the bed, the sounds each of them made, the waves of pleasure making the idea of pain seem distant.

He became invulnerable.

At some point he turned her over, a move that had been impossible only weeks ago. He could support his weight with his knees, trying to minimize the pain to his bad leg.

Her legs entwined his.

When her foot moved over his healed wound, he detected no flicker of a reaction from her.

For her, too, everything else had vanished but their lovemaking.

And as he looked at her in the shadows, kissing her hard again, at one point, she took a breath.

And as if welcoming him back from a long trip, she said:

“I love you.”

His answer was in his movements, driving deep, another kiss, holding her almost too tight.

Until it was done, and they both fell into the lightest of sleeps.