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They were heading directly toward the center of town, toward the intersection where the old hotel stood.
Directly toward Rags.
Yet with all this, there was something stranger, something that pulled a gasp from Rags’s chest and made Ghoulie begin growling.
There was a person leading the procession, running in front of the pack, sometimes turning to run backward. Waving at them. Taunting them. Calling them.
It was a little girl.
5
Then
New York City
Rachael tore the cape from Gayla’s costume, wadded it up, and pressed it to that terrible wound. She screamed at the top of her lungs.
“BRETT!”
“What?” came his muffled reply. “I’m still in here.”
“Oh my God, Brett, it’s Gayla!”
He whipped the door open and stared, half smiling, because he expected this to be a joke. That was their world. Little dramas, little bits of cosplay fun.
The smile and the color drained from his face.
“What happened? Is that blood?” he demanded. “Jesus—”
“Call 911,” screeched Rachael. “She’s really hurt. Oh my God, she’s really bad.”
He snatched up his cell and was hitting buttons as he dropped to his knees beside her. Rachael heard him shouting into the phone, giving name and room number, the hotel’s location, and a shocked and almost incoherent description of what had happened. Gayla moaned softly and tried to raise her arms, but her movements were feeble and sloppy.
“What happened?” repeated Brett, trying to pull the cloth aside so he could examine the wound. “Did you two get into a fight or—?”
“No,” snapped Rachael. “God, are you stupid? I didn’t do this. Gayla just showed up like this. Someone must have attacked her.”
“That looks like a bite,” he said, recoiling from it, his brow knit in confusion.
Rachael snatched the cloth back and pressed it into place.
They both turned as they heard noises out in the hall.
“That was fast,” said Brett as he shot to his feet and ran to guide the EMTs.
Rachael bent over Gayla, all their personal animosity swept away by what was happening. Jealousy and even mutual dislike did not matter when things were boiled down to the level of pain and suffering, of desperation and survival. “Hold on, sweetie. It’ll be okay. They’re coming. You’re going to be fine. They’ll take good care of you.”
Gayla’s eyelids fluttered, her hands twitched and spasmed.
Brett stepped into the hallway, raising his hand to wave for the paramedics.
He froze and stared at something Rachael could not see.
“What the hell . . . ?” he murmured. Then, a heartbeat later, he repeated the same words. Shouting them this time in a voice filled with confusion and fear. “What the hell?”
And then something hit Brett like a thunderbolt. A streak of red and blue slammed into him and knocked him into the wall on the other side of the doorway.
Rachael stared, unable to fully process what had happened.
