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She clenched her jaw and wriggled on her belly like a serpent sent out of the garden.

Emerland unlocked the gate. The chain-link fence was topped with razor wire, designed to put second thoughts into the minds of would-be thieves. He considered fleeing for the darkness that hung on all sides of the compound. But the Mull geezer still had the shotgun, and Emerland could feel its blunt power throbbing anxiously somewhere behind him. Plus, to be honest with himself, all that talk of green-eyed plant people and mountain-eating Earth Mouths had put him on edge.

Though Emerland had seen the strange people along the road, he still thought Mull and DeWalt were nuts. This was the twenty-first century, for God's sake. Science had pretty much squashed any prospect of monsters or ghosts or vampires rising out of the ground. And aliens had become plastic cliches because of their overuse by hack fiction writers and low-budget movie producers.

But good old human lunacy was a reliable constant, a proven horror that spanned history. And Emerland was positive that he could rely on Old Man Mull to do the unpredictable.

He turned back to the trio, flinching against the beams of the Mercedes’s headlights. Chester, DeWalt, and the flaky psychic babe were black shadows against the yellow brightness.

"There you go," he said. "I just hope the security guards don't swing by."

But there were no security guards. The company that had brokered his construction company's insurance had insisted on around-the-clock protection because of the dynamite. Emerland had agreed in writing, but had never seen the point in wasting money on security. Who gave a damn if somebody stole something or if the whole place blew to hell if you had insurance that would cover the damage?

"Now unlock the dynamite shed," grunted the skinniest shadow, the one with the shotgun.

Emerland didn't bother arguing. He led the way past the metal hulks of bulldozers and cement mixers and stacks of fat-grooved truck tires to a small shed at the back of the compound. DeWalt carried the flashlight that Chester had found in Emerland's glove compartment, but the moon was so bright in the clear sky that they didn't need it. Emerland fumbled with the lock in the plywood door, cursing himself for being such a control freak that he needed a key to everything that had Emerland Enterprises stamped on it.

Then the lock popped and the door swung open with a rusty groan of hinges. DeWalt stepped inside with the flashlight. Emerland felt the gun barrel in his back and followed DeWalt.

"Do you know how to use this stuff?" Chester asked DeWalt.

"Sort of. I read the Anarchist Cookbook back in my younger days. You need a blasting cap, fuse wire, an electrical detonator switch. And some of those."

He pointed to the stack of small, paper-covered rods that were in an open crate on a shelf. "How many does it take?" DeWalt asked Emerland.

"How the hell do I know? I'm a developer, not a demolition man," Emerland said.

"Shut your rat hole, Emerland," said Chester. "Grab two dozen. Pass some to Tamara, here."

Emerland watched as Chester filled his overall pockets with the heavy sticks.

"Hey, DeWalt, you overeducated Yankee, why don't you read what it says under the red letters there?” Chester said, pointing to the warning written on the wooden crate. “Then, whatever it says not to do, just do it. That ought to make some sort of snap, crackle, and pop or another."

"Chester, you're an idiot savant," DeWalt said.

"I don't take kindly to the ‘idiot’ part, but I'll take that other fancy word as some sort of praise."

"If I remember right-and you'll have to forgive me, because my brain was a little souped up back in those days-then you attach the wire to this detonator and then to the blasting cap. This button sends an electric charge through the wire that heats up the stuff in the cap, then-"

"Fucking fireworks,” Chester said. “Sets off the rest of the dynamite."

"Well, technically, this is TNT, not dynamite."

"What-the-hell-ever. As long as it makes a bang."

Emerland stepped back from the door, seeing that the two men were so intent on collecting the TNT that they didn't notice him. He glanced at the creamy-skinned blonde. Damn, she was good-looking. If only circumstances were different, he wouldn't mind having her in his hot tub on Sugarfoot, popping the cork on some Dom Perignon. He wondered if insanity was contagious.

"Um, guys,” she said. "The thing’s getting hungrier. I've got a feeling that we better move before the sun comes up."

Emerland's arousal shriveled. He tried to slink behind a broken motor grader.

"Not so fast, scumbucket," Chester said without turning. Emerland's feet locked. He passed the time by looking up the red mud slope of the clear-cut mountain to the shining tower of Sugarfoot Condominiums. It was beautiful against the starry sky, a man-made testament to the power of dreams. He wished he were there now, behind one of the tiny lights among the plush carpet and clean satin sheets and filthy-rich tourists. Away from grubby madmen and this sweet-cheeked Nostradamus.

They were walking back to the car, the woman and DeWalt clutching armfuls of dynamite, when something stumbled against the fence. Emerland heard the thin jingle of wire, then turned and saw the fruit of nightmares.

It had once been a woman, he could tell that much, because its stringy hair fell like soggy bean sprouts over dripping breasts. The eyes glowed with deep, irradiant longing as its pale fingers hooked the metal links. "Shu-shaaa… kish… treeeez…"

Had the sounds come from that thing's raw wet mouth that gaped too widely to be human? Emerland was studying the vaguely familiar cheekbones and the wide skull that shone like pallid cheese in the moonlight. He suddenly recognized her- no, IT, not HER — as one of the aerobics instructors at Sugarfoot. One that he had shared several rather private workouts with.

No.

This wasn't happening.

Emerland was still looking at the face, looking for the woman who had once worn that skin before… before the Earth Mouth-zombiemaker-worldeater came.

Then the face disappeared as the thunder of Chester's shotgun shredded the thing’s upper torso into a rain of pulp.

"They're out there. I see them coming," Tamara said in the sudden dead calm that followed the explosion.

Tamara led the way as they ran to the Mercedes. Emerland was frozen to the spot, unable to rip his gaze from the quivering stump of the creature that now sagged to the ground, leaving a viscous trail of fluid on the fence that shimmered in the moonlight. Then he regained the use of his legs and dashed to the car, passing the others and sliding behind the driver's seat of the Mercedes.

"Now do you believe?" DeWalt asked from the backseat. Emerland nodded.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Chester said.

Chester didn't even have to threaten him with the shotgun this time.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Bill hung up the cell phone. He had dialed Nettie's number for the fourth time. No answer at the church, either. She wasn't in her apartment when he drove there to meet her at eleven o'clock. She had stood him up.

After today. After all they’d been through and shared. After Bill had bent his principles. After the sin that didn’t feel at all like a sin.

After he’d said that word love, the clumsiest word that ever passed his lips.

He gripped the steering wheel and looked through the truck’s windshield. The Blossomfest booths were silent, draped with vinyl and canvas and waiting for tomorrow’s crowds. The brick faces of downtown were asleep, the streets black and empty. A police car threaded up the street between the stalls, its headlights washing over the plywood signs and stacked boxes and rigged backdrops.