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1
They crept up the outside of the building like roaches, scuttling up along the brickwork in the dark, silent, patient, fired by hunger and purpose. Five of them went up—the lightest of the pack, the ones with the strongest fingernails, the ones who could dig into the cement between the bricks. Four more waited below, smiling up through the firelit darkness.
When the climbers paused at one window, one of the watchers below cupped his hands around his mouth and softly called, “Next one up. ”
The five climbers looked up to the big window fifteen feet above them. There was a boom and a flash. A gunshot. Another, and another.
The climbers grinned and as one they reached up for the next brick, and the next.
2
LaMastra led the way up the stairs, whipping the shotgun barrel around every corner, whispering “Clear!” at each bend. The tower was littered with debris as if it belonged in a town where there had been strife and warfare for months rather than hours. Torn clothing, nameless junk, broken glass, and blood. In smears and splashes it was everywhere. The copper stink of it was making them sick; the higher they climbed the fresher and stronger the smell.
They were both sweating heavily and breathing like marathon runners. The gunshots still seemed to echo in their eardrums, and their shoulders were swollen and bruised from the recoiling guns, but need and fear and rage kept them going.
The fourth floor door was ajar, blocked from closing by an empty shoe. LaMastra shifted over and crouched, aiming through the opening. He nodded to Crow, who carefully opened the door. They could see the nursing station forty feet down the hall. There were bodies on the floor, but nothing moved in their line of sight. Crow stepped out first with LaMastra covering him, and moved over to the station. A nurse was sprawled on the counter, her throat torn out. Farther back in the large cubicle was a man in surgical scrubs. He had a bullet hole in his forehead.
Crow leaned closer and whispered, “That’s the nurse who helped stitch up Saul, and this guy here’s Gaither Carby. Local farmer. His son Tyler’s a friend of Mike’s. ”
“Val?” whispered LaMastra.
“Don’t know. ”
There were still sounds around the corner, down near Weinstock’s room. A whimpering cry, a pleading voice, and laughter.
They looked at each other, nodded, and just as they started to make their play a voice bellowed out: “Freeze! Police!”
They spun around and Officer Eddie Oswald, his uniform torn, his limbs streaked with blood, stood wide-legged in the fire tower doorway holding his pistol in a two-hand grip.
3
Jim O’Rear rushed into the Scream Queen tent just in time to see Debbie Rochon run by, screaming. When he saw what was chasing her he almost screamed himself.
There were two of them after her, both of them big, both of them with bloody mouths. The inside of the tent was a madhouse. People fought together on the ground, their thrashing legs kicking over the folding chairs. One of Crow’s pals, Dave Kramer, was using an overturned table to block the attackers long enough for some of the patrons to crawl out from under the skirts of the tent. In the middle of all this, some of the tourists stood looking at colors in the air no one else could see; one was sitting cross-legged on the stage pushing candy corn into his drooling mouth as his eyes jumped and rolled; a few had completely freaked out and were yipping like dogs and batting away at invisible attackers. At least a dozen of the customers were slumped in death, their throats torn to red tatters, their eyes seeing nothing at all.
None of it made sense. It was insane.
There was a cop there, but he was not trying to stop the carnage. Instead he was bending Brinke over a table, pushing her chin up to expose the tender flesh of her throat.
“Leave her alone!” O’Rear snatched up a folding chair and crashed it down on Golub’s back. The big cop fell to his knees, releasing the actress, who slid from the table, gasping.
Instantly the cop turned, hissing and showing his teeth to O’Rear.
“Holy shit!” O’Rear staggered back, horror and disbelief twisting his face.
Golub was laughing as he got to his feet. “This is going to be fun—”
O’Rear kicked him in the balls as hard as he could. It dropped Golub, supernatural or not, back down to his knees.
“You bastard!” Brinke snatched her pen off the signing table and rammed the point into Golub’s neck.
The cop howled and swung a heavy backhanded blow at her that sent her flying over the table. O’Rear cursed and kicked Golub in the throat with the heavy toe of his Timberlands. It only slowed Golub for a few seconds, but it was long enough for O’Rear to reach down and grab the cop’s sidearm. He racked the slide and put two in the side of his head.
Golub went down and stayed down.
O’Rear spun around, searching for Debbie. She had a folding chair in her hands and was trying to beat back the football players, but her blows did nothing more than slow them down. O’Rear settled into a shooter’s stance and shot them both in the back. They barely noticed. He raised the pistol, corrected his aim, and put the next four rounds in their heads. They dropped like rocks.
“Headshots,” O’Rear breathed. “Freaking headshots…”
