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The things.
The monsters.
Whatever they were.
Tom’s car was parked under a streetlamp, washed by the orange glow of the sodium vapor light. He’d come home from the academy, and all his gear was in the trunk. His pistol—which cadets weren’t even allowed to carry until after tomorrow’s graduation—and his stuff from the dojo. His sword, some fighting sticks.
He slowed, casting around to see if that was the best way to go.
Should he risk it? Could he risk it?
The car was at the end of the block. He had the keys, but the streets were clogged with empty emergency vehicles. Even if he got his gear, could he find a way to drive out?
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
Houses were on fire one block over. Fire trucks and crashed cars were like a wall.
But the weapons.
His weapons.
They were right there in the trunk.
Benny screamed. The monsters shambled after him.
“Go!” Mom had said. “Take Benny . . . keep him safe. Go!”
Just . . . go.
He ran to the parked car. Benny was struggling in his arms, hitting him, fighting to try to get free.
Tom held him with one arm—an arm that already ached from carrying his brother—and fished in his pocket for the keys. Found them. Found the lock. Opened the door, popped the trunk.
Gun in the glove compartment. Ammunition in the trunk. Sword, too.
Shapes moved toward him. He could hear their moans. So close. So close.
Tom turned a wild eye toward one as it reached for the child he carried.
He lashed out with a savage kick, driving the thing back. It fell, but it was not hurt. Not in any real sense of being hurt. As soon as it crashed down, it began to crawl toward him.
And in his mind Tom realized that he had thought of it as an it. Not a him. Not a person.
He was already that far gone into this. That’s what this had come to.
He and Benny and them.
Each of them was an it now.
The world was that broken.
It was unreal. Tom understood that this thing was dead. He knew him, too. It was Mr. Harrison from three doors down, and it was also a dead thing.
A monster.
