She never heard one speak before, and it shocked her. “What?”
“Ul raw,” the thing said. Then it jumped onto the fence. She let it climb, watched it, relishing the thing’s nearness—seeing its ugliness close up. She heard the fence chatter as the Howler climbed it. She waited for its belly to get to her eye level; then she plunged the kitchen knife she’d picked up in the snow deep into the thing’s gut, through the fence. She watched it continue to climb, ripping its own bowels open as it pulled itself up the fence.
“Die ... Die ... Die,” Patty said, the knife sunk to the hilt. But even partially eviscerated, pulling its own guts out with each move up the fence—it wouldn’t die. She stepped back, letting go of the knife, and shot the thing in the head, just as it was about to lift itself to the top of the fence, dragging a long tail of red and white guts behind it. The thing’s body slumped back headless, its body caught on the fence. It hung there, caught on a cowboy-style belt buckle that said TEXAS.
The doctor had not spoken a word since Miles had led him back into the house. They’d done what they could to comfort him, but Marvin had refused food when they offered him some of the canned chili they’d found and cooked. Both Miles and Patty had eaten several cans, heating the chili on the Pooles’ gas range, which still worked despite the lack of power. The doctor had sat in the living room staring out the window to the street beyond. They’d brought him clothes for the trip they were planning. Marvin had put them on without speaking. When Miles had told him what their plan was—to leave the Sierras via Highway 50 and head for Sacramento, where Miles said the government was broadcasting from an emergency radio frequency—Marvin had simply nodded.
“I’ve decided to stay here,” Poole said when they came in to check on him. “I’d rather stay here. You two go. Take the car.”
“No,” Miles said. “We can’t leave you here. No way. You’re coming with us.”
Poole looked at them both and shook his head no.
“They’ll need doctors in Sacramento,” Miles said.
“My wife and children are all dead,” Poole said in disbelief.
Miles didn’t know what to say.
“Your family would want you to go on living,” Patty said.
Marvin looked up at the young woman. “For what?” Poole said.
“To help people who will need a doctor!” Miles said. “That’s why. And maybe you can help figure out what the fuck is going on.”
“All right,” Marvin said. “I’ll go.”
At 6:30 in the evening they walked into the garage and got into Marvin’s wife’s dark blue Cadillac Escalade. They’d been hearing howling since the sun went down. Miles suggested he should drive, with Patty literally riding shotgun in the passenger seat, as she was the better shot. They’d gone back to Crouchback’s place and found another two boxes of ammunition for the twelve gauge—sixty rounds—but none for the damaged .30-30.
Miles looked at Patty. “Ready?” he asked.
“Yeah, as I’ll ever be,” Patty said. She watched Miles reach up to the visor and hit the garage-door opener. Patty watched the big garage door rise up in the rearview mirror. She saw several Howlers standing out in the street.
Seeing them too, Miles almost hit the button to close the door back down, but didn’t. “Fuck,” Miles said. He heard Patty hit the button rolling down the Cadillac’s passenger-side window. “Just fucking kill them,” Miles said.
He pulled out of the garage. He felt the cold air from the car’s open window and heard the shotgun go off almost immediately. He heard Patty rack the shotgun. She was leaning out of the window. He stepped on the Cadillac’s throttle, fishtailing out into the street, in reverse, whipping the steering wheel as the big car slid out of control. When it stopped sliding, he turned the wheel and floored it again.
He turned to look next to him; Patty was gone. He slammed on the brakes and looked in the rearview. She’d been yanked out of the car’s window and was lying on the ground. Miles put the car in reverse and floored it, aiming a rear bumper at the Howler standing over Patty. The Howler held the shotgun it had taken from her.
“Don’t get up,” Miles whispered, staring into the rearview mirror as he punched it. He felt the car hurtling backwards. He felt it hit something. He wasn’t sure whether he’d caught the Howler, or run over Patty. He waited what seemed for an eternity for the passenger door to open, not sure it would. “Come on—”
Patty jumped into the cab, coming out of the dark. She’d been searching for the shotgun but hadn’t seen it.
“I’ve lost the fucking shotgun,” she said as she slid into the seat, her jacket covered in snow.
Miles shifted into Drive and hit the accelerator, sending the Cadillac speeding down the street.
“Stop the car!” Marvin yelled. Miles, not understanding what was wrong, slowed the car. Marvin opened the back door and saw the black snow-dirty asphalt rushing past.
“Jesus, Marvin!” Miles said, slowing the car to a crawl.
“Stop the car!” Marvin said again. “I’ll get it.” Miles stopped the car. Marvin stepped out of the Cadillac and walked down the middle of the dark empty street. He saw Howlers jumping through the windows of a house and heard a man scream. He kept walking, looking to either side of the road for the shotgun. He finally saw it lying in the road in front of him. A Howler, both its legs broken, was lying in the snow near it. Marvin bent down and picked up the shotgun. He racked it, sending an empty shell out into the night.
He stood and looked around him. The neighborhood he’d known was gone. He could see broken windows, the bodies of his neighbors—people who like himself had been living normal lives just 24 hours before—lying where they’d had been killed. He looked up at the sky overhead and saw the stars. They looked bright and distant and perfect. The storm had passed. Something about looking up at the stars made him want to live, despite everything, as if he were all men, and not just one man.
“God help us all,” Marvin said out loud, lowering his head. He walked up to the crippled Howler that was trying to use its broken legs to stand again. Marvin laid the shotgun on the thing’s forehead. The thing grabbed for the barrel. Marvin fired and the Howler’s face disappeared. Its dead hand let go of the barrel. He turned and slowly walked back toward the Cadillac’s huge red taillights.
Marvin Poole was a changed man. He was now a violent and angry man, who had chosen to go on living, but only for vengeance’s sake, like some dark angel of death.
“Are you okay?” Miles asked, as Marvin slid into the back. Miles saw the doctor had a strange and different look on his face . He saw that it was peppered with Howler blood.
“Okay,” Marvin said, “Now. I’ll keep this with me.”
* * *
“He’s up there in that little cabin. He blocked the road so nobody can drive up there. Can you imagine?” Cooley said. They’d parked in front of the pine logs blocking the gravel road that led up to Chuck Phelps’s ranch.
“Doesn’t look like much,” the man riding next to Cooley said. He was a client of the accountant’s and an important official with the ATF in San Francisco. Cooley had given the ATF man and his wif —Fredrick C. Billings, Jr., and Mrs. Billings Jr.—a free luxury package at the B&B that included 90-minute massages and “European dermabrasion” in exchange for Billings’ promise to stop by the Phelps place and “investigate.” Billings was more than willing to get a free weekend in the mountains if all he had to do was flash his badge at some doomsday prepper and tell him to keep the noise down. And, of course, should the ATF man see anything illegal, it would lead to the opening of a formal ATF case file.